Christmas Spirit

 

Seven more sleeps till Santa Clause for all children good and bold.  But my mind turns toward Ruth Stoker, will her true story  ever unfold?

Think back to December 1923, what was it like for a girl of fourteen?  All those miles away in Connemara, first term learning the life of a high society.

Was there a wonderful  atmosphere in the Castle, was it decorated there too?  Did a giant Christmas tree reach up to the atrium, baubles and candles glinting through?

castle christmas

 

Were your holiday plans simple?  To get home to your own bed.  Looking forward to time with your sisters and parents, time for  oogling Clearys window instead?  How happy I imagine your mother,  anticipating her baby girl home at last.  Putting aside society etiquette and hugging you fast.   Your father might be busy with his Surgery but no doubt he could fit in time for play ?  He might let you use with his Champion tennis racket, perhaps a family lunch at the club house a plan for one of the days?

fortnum-and-mason-christmas-window

 

How would your house greet you,  Number 23 Westland Row?  Would the lamp lights dance and flicker, beams of yellow all a glow?  Did you imagine a healthy wreath of green and red,  hanging on your front door.  The Georgian hallway full of festive cheer, with  holly and ivy garlands  sweeping the stairway to the floor.  Prisms of light dancing through the leaded glass on the landing, where faires hide with glee.   Had your parents placed any Christmas presents underneath the candle laden tree?

christmas tree

 

But you would never see that Christmas, nor sleep in your own bed once more. Never see Jesus placed in the manger of Saint Andrews  or hear their Christmas Day choir soar.

I  see you instead the week before Christmas, sick in your bed at Kylemore.  Feeling miserable,  weak and afraid, eyes nervoulsy darting toward the door.

caring for tb patient

 

At first, put down to a chest infection and the end of a long school term. The tolls of learning Latin and Music,  and elite school rules that were firm.  When the  infection took hold and got more serious, and scarlet droplets dotted your chin, were  travel plans home delayed and the local doctor called in?  They then treated you  for pneumonia but sure how could the ignorant have known ?  It was not only your life that was threatened, but the Community as a whole.

When did they finally move you, were you isolated, placed in an old Castle room?  Were the rest of the students sent home with an excuse of  Christmas holidays and prayers from Rome.

 

Was it the 17th when  you became too weak,  as the fever set in?  Did the scarlet droplets turn to blobs of betrayal,  as your lungs quickly deteriorated from within?  Modern medicine had yet to be discovered, and superstition and taboo your fate.  Was there a secret hush throughout the Abbey corridors? It is Galloping Consumption  – Alas!  too late.

consumption

 

Who bravily cared and wiped your brow , cleaned the blood from your blue lips?  Did your parents make it in time to your bedside, say their goodbyes, take your dying kiss?

romantic consumption

 

I know not what hour you slipped from this world.  By  the 18th you were gone.  To be buried in the nun’s cemetery, did the nun’s gather in prayer and sing some song?  Did you pass from this world to the next or decide to stay a while?  As they lowered you down into the clay, scattering  lime as was the style.

Who visited your grave to mourn you, who tendered the mound as it slowly sank?  Who placed the hand carved headstone, who do we have to thank?

Ruth Stoker grave stone

I see you  Ruth Stoker of 23 Westland Row, though I never knew you at all.  I can only imagine our friendship, as an original K-Girl.  Do you turn to face  us in Connemara where your spirit resides?  Do you turn to face the sunset beyond Diamond Hill or the Kylemore Lake sunrise?

 

2014-09-11 07.29.32

 

Here is to you Ruth Stoker and all the K-Girl’s besides.  Those, who the week before Christmas have left us, and those over the months and the years of tides .  How many smiles turned to sorrow?  Hearts broken across the miles?

Lay you all not forgotten,

Lay you loved all the while.

Remembering all K-Girls today

and forevermore besides.

candle of light

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Putting it out there

I am a great believer in asking for something.

What is the worst you can hear after all?

No?

If we don’t ask, we don’t get.

Some might believe that our paths are set and what is due will come in turn.  Rubbish I say! – okay, not total rubbish – I do believe that our paths are somewhat laid down but just for the pure fun of it, GOD (whatever type yours is) throws in a bit of choice to see what we can come up with ourselves.

if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”

I have encouraged my kids to be confident in asking for something.  There is a skill to this I think – there is a lot to be said for good manners, good humour, and sure, doesn’t everyone love a charming chancer?

It all boils down to asking for something ‘cos you, well, want it.   So you have to put it out there.

please sir

 

As a boarder in Kylemore, I took chances at asking for permission  – A lot of the time, I was told no, but it was a real bonus when I was told yes!  I  got home early from boarding school  once – I didn’t expect that result myself!

As an adult I was often on the receiving end.  Having worked in the hotel industry, while us managers had to manage complaining guests and going with ‘the customer is king’ attitude – I always acquiesced so much more easily to the polite guest with the issue, than the demanding loud condescending rude one.

And who doesn’t love the try-er – ‘Is there any chance we could get an upgrade?’

Did you hear about the student at a Richard Branson convention somewhere out of state?  – he was receiving texts from the audience as part of the Q & A at the end of the session before he had to dash to his next commitment that was the inauguration of the new President Obama in Washington.  Some bright spark texted him asking was  there any chance they could get a spin with him to the swearing in  – and would you believe it, Richard was impressed enough with their taking a chance and their charming cheekiness, that he said yes!  The texter and their friend were whisked away there and then along with Richard in his helicopter and not only got to see the inauguration but got prime view with Branson’s entourage! (or so the story goes)

I just love that.

But what has this got to do with anything?

 

take a chance

While the self published route has been very satisfying, now that I have written my second book in the series, I have realised with confidence that there is more to my book series than, well,  books.  I firmly believe that the idea as a whole has so much more potential and that realisation involves not being able to do it on my own.  I can, and do, write, but I need experts in all the other areas to do what they do best and so need to be part of team.

To achieve this,  I need to go back to the traditional approach that is to getting “Published” – and I think that means getting an agent.  So I am back to the asking again.

purrrlease

Permission seeking.  ‘Can I be part of your gang?’ sort of thing.

Little_Rascals

Now I have to up sell – ‘cos this time I am in a queue of askers.

Rejection is a little more commonplace when it comes to putting it out there – and I have had my fair share of those.

I am beginning to wonder do I need to revisit my  approach?

Writing my blog and completing my various pages on ‘About me’ and ‘So who is Ruth?’ has made me realise that what I actually share with people when telling them about my book series is not what I have been actually sending out to the various agents/publishing houses.

Perhaps I need to take another look at that?

I recently sent out some new query’s to agents in New York – the thinking that the American market might like the idea of an Irish boarding school story and so after carefully studying and selecting the agents that I thought would be the right fit, I dusted off my submission page and query letter and sent that off.

I have received one rejection so far (1 week after submitting – good going considering some can take up to 6 weeks and beyond)

 “Thank you so much for writing me about your project. I carefully consider each query I receive, and I’m sorry to say that I’m not quite the right fit for yours. I do appreciate that you wrote to me and wish you the very best luck finding the ideal agent for your work.”

 Nicely put,  but it is still a big fat NO!

It is a bit like going for that new job – but that role you really really want.

The fate believers will tell you that it will all come right in the end – and that you have to keep kissing a lot of ugly frogs before you find the right one – eggs to be broken to make an omelette – many doors to be knocked on before the right one opens………

It is reassuring to know that JK Rowling, CS Lewis, Agatha Christie among others, received many rejections before finding their right fit.  I wonder how often they changed their approach?

And so I am now wondering should I not be knocking on doors but instead, say,

throwing pebbles at a window?

Maybe that would get a ‘special’ someone’s attention?

 

We Want You

Plot – Story or Grave?

I went on a walk this morning,  took a turn up past the small cemetery that lies on the coastal town of Schull (West Cork, Ireland).   It slopes gently down to the shore, overlooking Schull harbour and the Carbery isles – in turn lying on the edge of the Atlantic.  It is a beautiful spot.  I find it very moving and inspiring.

It set me thinking of plot.

And the pun therein.

Any writer will tell you that every good story has to have a great plot.  And while I like to think that ‘K-Girls’, my book, has one, I have to confess that the whole idea behind writing my series starts with a rather basic, very sad looking plot.

I discovered it at the age of 12, and was struck by it from the get go.  But it would take me the guts of 30 years before I gave it it’s due respect.

Not many know this, but the whole plot behind K-Girls started with the actual plot, that is the grave, of Ruth Stoker who is a 14 year old who is buried at Kylemore Abbey, Connemara, Co. Galway.

For any who have had the pleasure to visit Kylemore, you may remember the lovely walk to the Gothic Church that lies to the east of the Abbey/Castle?  I could say a lot about this cathedral in miniature, but I do not want to waiver from the topic that is, Ruth.  Anyway, under the shade of the Oak trees and watchful eye of Gothic gargoyles is a simple cemetery where in lies the remains of the Benedictine community that have passed on over the years.

In the midst of the simple stone markers for the nuns, there is a small standing celtic stone cross.  It is the maker of Ruth.  It simply states ‘In loving memory of Ruth Stoker who died on 18th December 1923 aged 14 years. RIP’

Ruth Stoker grave stone

When I was a student at Kylemore the myth was that she had died having fallen from the tower (the reason why the Gothic was locked up at the time) , or another, drowned in the lake (explaining why us students were never allowed to swim or boat on the mass of water).  I suppose many girls saw the grave and wondered for a moment, perhaps some didn’t see it at all.  But it struck a chord with me – why was there a girl buried in the nun’s cemetery?  And admittedly, the romantic in me thought how lovely to be buried at Kylemore – imagining that she must have had a great love for the school and her time there.  And that one day, as I have a similar love, that I too might be buried there – or at least some ashes scattered.

Now that I am 44 and married with my own teen girls, I see a different side  – that of the view of a mother  – and try and imagine what it must have been like for the mother of Ruth to have to say good bye to her little girl, and then to witness her being lowered into the ground?  Did the sun shine, setting the church lime stone alight, or did the Connemara rains fall gently dusting people’s umbrellas, or cloche hats and caps.  Was there a good turn out?  How many would have been stood around the small ope and scattered soil into the dark earth on that December day?

As a student at Kylemore, I did not consider a mother’s love, I was too preoccupied with who Ruth was and where had she come from?  How had she truly died?

Perhaps that is where the seed of her spirit was captured within me at the age of 12 and she grew as I did over my years at Kylemore and then, unbeknownst to myself – Ruth came away with me.

It was only the last 7 years that I built up the courage to start writing in earnest and contacted one of the older nuns (Sr Benedict, historian) about Ruth.  While Sr Benedict was not too familiar with Ruth’s background, she went to the retired elders and discovered that Ruth’s story was a foggy one.

A fire in the bursar office in the 50’s (that is a story in its own right) destroyed all student records and so little was remembered of her, only that the retired nuns remembered something about ‘galloping consumption’ and being ‘buried in Kylemore at the request of her parents’.

Oh! – now that put a different perspective on it – galloping consumption? – buried at the request of her parents? What did that mean?  Consumption, I understood was TB but what did galloping?  It did not bode well.  And Ruth buried at the request of her parents? – Where they there after all?  My mind raced with supposing and surmising.

And so curiosity took me down a road of research and censuses – all the while, Ruth stood at my shoulder, and I felt as if she was smiling enjoying the mystery that she had become for me.

Writers will tell you that characters become alive and when writing, they will so often lead us down a plot path that we never designed in the first instance.   I have found this of Ruth.

Ruth Stoker the actual teen who died in Kylemore  has her own story, and one I will gladly share in another post another time – her grave side remains simple and I visit it every time I am back at Kylemore.  I place a stone on the cross to mark my return, (some think this is a Jewish custom but it’s origins are pagan – the stone symbolising the permanence of memory)

It is nice to see that a other stones have been placed by mine.

But the Ruth of K-Girls, the one that lives in my head and manifests as a ghost in my writing, well she is having a ball within the pages that is K-Girls with  her new mortal friend, Alice.  Ruth is getting to live her teen life all over again – albeit in the 80’s  – and as Alice has a whole 6 years to go as a student of Kylemore.

The two of them will  have a lot of fun with plot;

and sometimes even losing it every now and then.

Diaries

My seven year old found my old school diaries.  Not that they were hidden for no one to find, just that it was the first time that he took an interest in them.

I have kept diaries, or journals, throughout my life – in fact, without them I don’t think I would ever have considered writing a novel at all.   And so I have a big box of diaries that span my teen and young adulthood years (I journal less now that I write as an author).

Only 2 actual diaries have sat on my writing desk for the last 4 years.  These two diaries were the background to the writing of ‘K-Girls’, and preparation for the sequel, ‘K-Girls Plus One’.   I would have written them in 1984 and 1985, when I was 13/14.

I have to confess, that most pages  are typical of a teens worries, thoughts and moans, with the odd love lost or crush.

All the same, for the most part, they are not suitable for a seven year old.

What I find interesting is that neither of my teen daughters ever took much interest in them, and so it came as a surprise that my seven year old son was not only fascinated with them, but wanted me to read them to him, and went so far as trying to sneak them into his bedroom to try and decipher my scrawl on his own.

As a parent third time round, I have learnt though, if you tell a child they can’t have something, they just want it all the more;  and so in an effort to stem his new curiosity, I  promised to read to him (that way I am in control) some of the pages within.

This has proved interesting to me.  Most of the entries are what I would call typical, simple, occasionally cringe worthy, and even funny,  on different levels. The best days are the one that, only for the diaries, I would have forgotten about them completely.  To a stranger they may not mean a whole lot, but to me the pages draw on distant memory banks, and allow me to dip into my past, raise a smile and reminisce on old times.  How cocky I was, how innocent, (and then again, perhaps not), how impetuous, petty, or immature, (some would say I haven’t changed much)

And then I think, hang on a second, is this what blogging has replaced?  And facebook?  Only as we are sharing our thoughts with the world, do we hold back on our REAL opinion for fear of judgement, ridicule?  With journals, the premise is that they are private and so we can CONFESS, without judgement.  We can truly speak plainly and openly.  OFF THE RECORD as such.

Wasn’t Wilde that said ‘I never travel without my diary – one should have something sensational to read in the train.’

I know certainly that I am trying to be more careful in my blogging, what to say, how to say it, who is possibly reading it, (if anyone).  My journals, they have a different sense about them – raw, as-it-is.  Warts and all.  There is a lot to be said about that I think – I can see that within the diaries, is the forming of my true writing voice – capturing the real feelings of a young teen girl, even if in the 1980’s.  Have teens changed a whole lot – you would think I would know having two of them but is the main difference being social media has perhaps indirectly created a censorship to a young person’s voice?

In any case, I thought to share with you my first page in my diaries as a K-Girl – don’t get too excited now, I know my seven year old certainly didn’t.

teen diariesdiary entry 1984

diary transcript

8-3-’84 – Lent 1st day

Dear Diary,

Since this is my first page I thought i might has well tell you that I most probably wont be able to write every night cause I’m not great at writing every night.  I don’t know why I decided to write but I said to hell and took this out and here I am writing this.  To-day is the 2nd day of lent and I’ve given up sweets and I have to try and keep it ’cause I usually break it.  

I’ve got to go to sleep now ’cause Miss Oakely is switching the light off now.

Good night

Sweet Dreams

Lydia