Unusually for me in January 2023 I decided to make specific targets with my writing. 1. Submit Making Good to an agent or publisher  2. Find ways of promoting A Time for Peace (published in 2016) 3. Complete 1st draft a a new novel, Kaleidoscope. With that in mind I applied to West Midlands’ Room 204 (unsuccessfully I learned at the end of March), continued to attend the local branch of Society of Authors’ meetings and events and submitted Making Good to several more agents. (unsuccessfully though one agent described the first 3 chapters as “interesting” but…)

On 15th February, without warning, overwhelmed by tiredness, I fell on the pavement outside St Mary’s Church in Lillington. I was walking to the Spa Centre in Leamington to attend an annual event I’d never taken part in before: Warwick District Council’s creatives’ day. I’d hope to meet other writers, artists; also to get back in touch with a café friend, Georgie, who I’d lost touch with during the 2020 lockdown.

Luckily I passed my GP surgery on the way to town and though my arm was swollen in an alarming way, I was concerned as to why I’d fallen. I was given an emergency phone call with a GP, and later saw her in her surgery. A visit to A&E confirmed I’d broken my elbow and 10 days later I had emergency surgery to repair the damage. Only now, almost 3 months later am I free from pain – not from the actual break but from the elbow exercises needed to restore the joint to functional use. Only now do I feel I’m – if not back on track with January’s intentions – I’m finding the energy to write again.

Years ago I taught at a Special school in Blackley, Manchester. It was an all age school for children with predominantly physical limitations. It seemed to me then that the children who found it hardest to adjust were those who had lost something they once had. Say after a road accident or an unforeseen illness or emergence of a genetic disorder. I was reminded of those children after my fall. One moment I was reasonably fit with plans for the future and the next needed to pause. I wasn’t dying but I needed to re-assess. Physically and practically for several weeks I was no longer independent. The adjustment was psychological as well as physical.

I learned during lockdown that writing matters to me. I joined many on-line poetry courses and made friends on zoom and facebook with people I still keep in touch with. This time I and my husband were the only ones restricted by my fall. Again, luckily, an on-line course I’d already signed up to, came to my rescue. Jonathan Davidson was running a poetry course which ran on Monday evenings. In addition Tindal Street Fiction Group had regular zoom meetings so a degree of normality was possible. I put my own fiction writing to one side and concentrated on reading and writing poetry. Between times I read books – fiction and non-fiction- recommended by friends.

And, as during lockdown, it wasn’t simply lockdown that mattered.  Mostly though it was that people cared. With lockdown we cared for each other. We rang each other and met in each other’s gardens or in green spaces. After my fall I was the only one with the problem.  Everyone else carried on their lives. Nonetheless friends and family provided kindness, offered and gave practical support. Cards, flowers, chocolates were of course welcome. Phone calls and visits too. It was unexpected and I felt loved.

I can remember ringing my dad from our holiday in Germany one Sunday afternoon,  He was alone, my mother being in residential care. ‘Thank goodness you rang. I thought I was dead,’ he said I understand now his sense of isolation.

Reading:

The Well of Grief – David Whyte  (Poem is available online – Allpoetry)

The Cure for Sleep – Tanya Shadrick ( part of Wendy Pratt’s on-line reading group) (bio.

The Houses of Alphonso – Anthony Kellman (novel)