Police Commissioner voting

Tomorrow, I’m expected to vote on one of the major issues affecting my life: the policing of my town and county. I’m supposed to choose a commissioner who will be able to hire and fire senior officers, and set police budgets.

They’ll have the power to decide whether solving crime is financially viable or not. Technically, this could mean that if the burglary division uses its allotted funds within six months, the commissioner could refuse to allow them to investigate further for the rest of that fiscal year.

Quite an important position then.

So why do I know nothing of the candidates and their suitability for the role? How do I know which of them is best qualified for the job, most likely to understand the needs of police and public, and most able to work with the force to be effective in the fight against crime and the struggle to make Sussex safe?

I’ve had no flyers, no manifestos, no notice of public meetings. Nothing.

I did try looking up the candidates online. I found a page in the Sussex Police website which listed their names, but little else. It said some were affiliated to political parties – an open invitation to future questions of impartiality if ever I saw one.

There was no indication that any of the hopefuls had experience in policing, or understood what police officers deal with daily. No explanation of how they would do the job. Until this week only one candidate had bothered to write a statement saying why he’d like the post, although two others have now done so.

Last night there was a ten minute segment on the local news, when each candidate spoke. One kept on about her business experience. She obviously thought having a track record in keeping to a budget was the most important thing. Well, personally, I couldn't care less about the budget. If keeping us safe and crime free requires more money than the police have got, find the money. You could always take it from the commissioner's salary, politicians' expenses and all those civic dos they seem to like to attend.

Another kept on about how much experience he had with charity work. So?

A third made a lot of the specials and how they could be used to better effect. Specials have their place, but they are meant to complement the paid, full time officers, not to replace them.

I was left wondering if the one thing none of the candidates had to recommend them was a real concern for the police force and their ability to do their job properly, unhindered and unfettered.

The winner of this election will, undoubtedly, be powerful. The wrong person could conceivably make life less safe for us all, police and public alike. Yet we’re being asked to make the choice blindfold.

Considering what’s at stake, is that fair?

Known To God

Written after a trip to the war cemeteries at Ypres. If anyone wants to use it in an act of remembrance, feel free, but please don't make money from it, unless you give it to an armed services charity.

KNOWN TO GOD

They seemed to go on forever. Little splashes of pure white on a lush green that rose and fell, rose and fell as far as the eye could see. The sheer scale of it overwhelmed me. It brought the sting of tears and a heavy heart.

There were so many.

I didn’t know any of them. I don’t have a relative or family friend here. But in a way, they were all my relatives. All my friends.

I walked slowly along the nearest row of crosses, reading the inscriptions. Some had names and regimental badges carved into them. Here a Sergeant slept beside a Private, who rested easily beside his Lieutenant. All of equal rank now. Every one of them of great worth to me.

Some headstones told their ages:

Forty two years. Did he have a wife waiting at home, anxious for news? Children who treasured memories of rough and tumble with Daddy on the green? Grandchildren to bounce on his knee?

Twenty one years. Just come of age, a lifetime ahead. A sweetheart, making plans for a wedding that never happened?

Eighteen years. Was this a spotty youth with a sullen lip that curled down when his mother called?

Fifteen years. A child! He should have been at home, chasing friends and shouting, “You’re it!” before running off for tea.

There were five men beneath one headstone. Three beneath the next. Eight men, huddled together for eternity in a space no bigger than a fox hole.

The next cross carried no regimental badge. No name for living fingers to trace. It said simply, “A soldier, known to God”.

Who mourned him? Who sat at home, waiting, wondering, hoping when hope was no longer an option? Did someone grow old watching the lane that maybe, just maybe, he would yet walk along?

“Known to God.”

I’d read about the place. The battle. The slaughter. I learned it in school, saw it re-enacted on TV. But nothing could have prepared me for this. I passed through the ranks of this company of crosses and became one with these uncredited men who had given their all. For me. A person not born when these lives were laid down. A person of no consequence to them. But they were willing to march into hell. For me.

“Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

But there IS a greater love. It is the love of a man who will lay down his life, not just for his friends but for those who are not his friends: his rivals, his enemies, people he has never even met. That was the love these men showed, here, in Flanders’ Fields.

I looked down at the cross once more.

“Known to God.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Many are the ways God moves in our lives...

Maybe it’s because I write, but I am fascinated by other people, especially people whose experiences are completely different to mine. I want to know what makes them who they are, why they do what they do, make the choices they make. To quote my all time favourite fictional hero, Atticus Finch, I want to “climb into their skin and walk around in it.”

So I’m very much looking forward to a week long series of interviews with people, some of whose lives have been as different to mine as night is to day.

Hosted by All Saints Church in Crowborough, and conducted by Roger Carswell, the interviewees are diverse and include former UVF terrorist, David Hamilton, entertainer and broadcaster Fiona Castle, John, who works in countries along the silk route, Tim, a Christian minister with an Iraqi Muslim background and Susie, director of Bethany Children’s Trust, which rescues street children.

What all these people have in common is a strong Christian faith, and the interviews will, of course, show how that faith has affected their lives. Whether you share that faith or not, their accounts of the difference it has made to them promise to be riveting.

The interviews are part of The Cross Factor, which runs from Sunday 11^th to Sunday 18^th November. As well as the interviews, the festival includes a reasonably priced Men’s Breakfast at Barnsgate Manor, and special services on both Sundays.

But it’s the interviews, the insights into extraordinary lives, that I suspect will have the most impact on the audiences.

Attendance at the interviews is free. All of them will take place at All Saints Church Centre, and all you need to do is turn up. For more details, call the Church Office on 01892 652081, or visit the festival website, www.crossfactor.org.uk

Back on track

Over the last couple of years, I've been writing, as much as I ever have. I wrote whilst I was ill, and it was the only thing that kept me sane. I wrote as I recovered my strength and my confidence, and I wrote when I began full time work after thirty years of having no boss. (Now THAT was a shock to the system!)

In the last five months, since I started working, I have managed to complete a stage play, polish two more which have been accepted for publication by Lazy Bee Publishing, and polish and edit two screenplays which I've entered into screenplay competitions. I've now started work on the next screenplay.

All of which proves to me that I can work a full time office job with overtime, and write. Of course, the dust is building in the house and my friends don't see so much of me, but hey! I am only human.

However, what I would really like to do, no, make that dearly LOVE to do, is write for my living. I'd love to have enough money from the scripts each year that all my bills are paid from that. Which is not to say I'd give up the day job. I enjoy the job. I like the people I work with, and I feel I make a difference in peoples' lives. But the gilt does chip away from the gingerbread somewhat when I'm there because I have no choice. How wonderful it would be to be able to say I am here because I wish to be, and the salary is of secondary importance.

I have come to realise that the only way that is ever going to happen is if I get an agent. Someone who will represent me, show my screenplays to those who can turn them into films. Indeed, without an agent, selling a screenplay is next to impossible, as so many film companies and producers won't even look at an unagented script.

I made a start. I sent a script out to an agent. Now for the hard part. Waiting for them to read it and reply, hopefully positively.

Wish me luck.

Freebies for whom?

Some years ago, when the statue to Conan Doyle was erected, Crowborough town council had a bit of a bunfight to celebrate. They invited the great and the good from across the globe to eat, drink and be merry. The taxpayers of Crowborough were, of course, not on the guest list. We just paid for it.

I remember wondering if our councillors would have been so keen to attend if they’d had to pay for themselves – not from their expenses, since, apart from the Mayor and possibly the deputy mayor, it was hardly essential that they attend.

This year, to celebrate the Olympic torch coming through, there’ll be another shindig. We will feed and entertain visiting VIPs. Again, you and I, the ordinary people, aren’t invited to the feast.

I wonder. Who’s paying for it this time?

I have no objections to entertaining visitors to our town. I don’t object to the costs coming from my council tax, provided their visit is pertinent to the occasion, and of course the mayor and deputy mayor should be there to greet them. Perhaps others, too – Crowborough sporting representatives, perhaps, or some of those who have volunteered to help with the Olympics.

I’m less happy to pay for others. Those who are known as “Local Dignitaries”. Local, they may be. A Dignitary, even. But are they essential to the Olympics, or Crowborough’s involvement with the Games? If the answer to that question is no, should the taxpayer pick up the bill for them? Or should they pay for their own ticket to the table? 

At a time when we’ve stopped raising the flag to save money, and when our District council wanted to charge for collecting grass cuttings, surely all “Dignitaries” should lead by example and refuse to take council money when it’s not absolutely vital?

False economy

I popped in to Crowborough Library recently, and in the council’s foyer I saw the plans for lighting our streets in the nights to come.

I know the council must save money. I’m all for sensible cost cutting. I have no issue whatsoever with turning off every other light in a road. Presumably, that’s a 50% reduction at a stroke, with little loss of illumination.

I’d even cut every other light on those roads where they propose keeping things as they are. They’d still be well lit enough to be safe, and I doubt it would distress anybody.

What will distress people is the proposal concerning other streets, whereby ALL lighting will be turned off from 00.30 to 06.30 nightly. To me, that’s economy at the expense of public safety, and that’s no economy at all.

For one thing, people are still out and about at half past midnight. Even my quiet cul-de-sac is not completely deserted at that time, although Sunday to Thursday it’s generally silent by 1am. Waiting an extra thirty minutes could make a big difference.

Fridays and Saturdays, of course, people are out till the small hours and need lights to get home. Girls in particular need to see properly to feel safe. Would you be happy if your daughter was walking home in the pitch darkness? I know I wouldn’t.

And what about potholes? Treacherous in daylight, in the dark they’d be lethal. A few compensation claims from Lawyers4U would completely wipe out the savings on the electricity bill.

I hope the council will think again and leave us some lighting, at least at those times when people are still likely to be out. Or will someone have to be hurt before they realise that some economies are just not worth the candle?

Pit Your Wits for World In Need

If you enjoy Quiz Nights, there's a treat in store for you. 

Come and join us at the All Saints Church Centre on Saturday May 12^th for the World In Need “Pit Your Wits” Evening. Doors open at 7pm for a 7.30pm start.

Our quiz master is Nigel Large. While he tests you, his sister Hilary and her team will provide a ploughman’s meal to help keep the little grey cells nourished. Drinks will be on sale, to include teas and coffees as well as wine.

Tickets for the quiz and buffet are £7.50 per person. Bring your own team of up to eight players, or come along and we’ll find you a team on the night.

Nigel has a devious mind, and to make the evening a little different while raising as much money for World In Need as we can, he has devised and prepared some extra brain teasers. These puzzles are in addition to the main quiz rounds, and are not included in the ticket price. They will be available before the quiz starts and in the interval, and will cost you a small extra donation.

Tickets are available from Marilyn on 01892 669834, or reserve yours by emailing info@worldinneed.co.uk.

Disappearing witnesses

Easter once was an important time of year. Like Christmas, it was a date to set goals: “By Easter, I will have done this or achieved that.” It determined the school term and heralded summer after harsh and unforgiving winter.

For Christians, Easter is far more, of course. Celebrating the death and resurrection of Jesus, it is the most important time of our year. Far more important than Christmas.

For many years, Christians in Crowborough marked Good Friday with a Walk of Witness. They walked from the United Church to the town centre, at once thanking Jesus for his sacrifice and making a public declaration of their faith. Years ago, the police arranged for the temporary halting of traffic for this, although more recently we’ve had to squeeze onto pavements and take our chances at junctions. The long lines of walkers became little clumps as one group crossed a road and another group waited for a new break in traffic.

This year, there will be no walk at all. I find this a shame. Not because I feel everyone should celebrate my God, or because I wish to proselytise, but because I am proud to confess myself his follower, happy to stand and be counted for him.

I don’t mind that others carry on with their normal day. I don’t mind if they ignore me, or even mock me for marking the occasion. That is their right. I simply would like to be able to walk and witness with others whgo share my beliefs. Is that so wrong?

A Grave situation

Recently, I took a friend to the Herne Road cemetery, to tend her family’s resting places. It was the first time I’d been there, and I was appalled.

My father rests at Seaford, where the cemetery is peaceful and welcoming, with well tended flower beds, graves and paths. In contrast, Herne Road cemetery was a place I would not wish to linger. To be honest, what I saw bordered on neglect.

To start with, there didn’t seem an easy way of getting to the graves. The paths aren’t paved, and when I visited, they were muddy and churned. That’s bad enough if you’re just ruining good shoes, but it’s potentially lethal to someone unsteady on their feet.

Bushes and shrubs had been planted to honour loved ones, and many had grown out of control. In other cemeteries I’ve visited, overgrowth is trimmed back and bushes kept neat so they don’t impinge on other graves. Similarly, the rampant spread of heather and other fast growing plants is carefully checked.

Talking to others, I discovered much discontent. One lady was distressed by the pile of rubbish behind her grandfather’s grave. Gardeners had cut back hedges, piled the branches and then just left them.

Apparently, it’s worse in summer. Families tend graves, making them pristine. Then the gardeners come with strimmers. The grass cuttings blow all over the graves and are left there. Worse, it is not uncommon for the strimmers to actually chip the stone surrounds of graves. I know how I would feel if my loved one’s resting place was damaged in this way.

Grave plots are paid for, and they aren’t cheap. They should be treated with respect, as should the graveyard as a whole, and its visitors. That’s surely not too much to ask in a modern, civilised society?

Busy, busy, busy

It's been a hectic couple of months, but well worth it. I've finished and sold the stage version of "Barabbas", and that will be published in 2012 by Eldridge Publishing (http://www.histage.com).

The pantomime, "Ahmed and his Mummy" is to be performed in Crowborough in January 2012 and rehearsals are underway. I stand in awe of the talent on display, and am really gratified at the fun and laughter that comes out of the rehearsal room each week.

The pantomime "Sinbad the Sailor" is half done and has been put on hold so I can finish the screenplay version of "Barabbas". I find I can't work on two things at once, and of the two, "Barabbas" was the more pressing. Sinbad will be finished soon.

On top of all this, life goes on. My son, who has recently lost a staggering 170 pounds in weight, is taking part in his first ever football tournament on Sunday, so guess where I will be, wrapped in scarves and woolly hats and cheering for him? The same way I frequently stand and cheer my grandsons at their matches.

Then I am working to advertise the World In Need "Alternative Christmas Gifts", whereby you buy a gift for someone in the developing world, in the name of someone you love here. This is work I am passionate about, so I always make time for it.

Plus, Christmas is coming, pressies need wrapping, cards need writing, shopping needs doing, and time is a marching on. How come 25th December always sneaks up and finds me unawares?

Today, though, I took time out of my schedule, to speak to the children in Year 6 at St Mary's Catholic School in Crowborough. They wanted to know about writing, and I was honoured to tell them about my writing day and routine. I hope they got as much out of it as I did.

This afternoon, after the school trip and then a walk on the forest with the dog (anything to procrastinate), I wrote the crucifixion scenes in "Barabbas". Now I am exhausted and need a lie down.

Goes to show you never can tell.

Last year, I was ill. I took several months to get myself on the road to recovery and it affected my output somewhat. I did write a few things whilst I was "under the weather", but I was definitely slower than before, not so prolific. I was also dreadfully unsure of the standard I was achieving.


I managed to write a couple of things, but each word was wrung from me, and there were tears shed over my lost ability. I was convinced each scene was rubbish, so much so that I was almost embarrassed to show anyone.


I managed to write three major things during my illness. The first was a Pantomime, "Ahmed and the Mummy". Basically, I told myself I was going to write it, and I forced myself to do so. Every joke was, to my mind, unfunny. Every line of dialogue sounded stilted. Every situation was cliched and lacking in humour. Friends told me it was funny, but they could not convince me.


At their instigation, I sent the pantomime to the British publisher Lazy Bee (www.lazybeescripts.co.uk) He'd already published 7 of my plays and pantos, so he'd give it the time of day. He would also reject something not up to scratch. There's no old pals act with MY publishers.


Imagine my surprise when he told me it was funny and original and agreed to publish it. That showed me I was not the best judge of my own work!


This lesson was reinforced when I was asked to write a modern day Nativity for a local junior drama group. The result was "Power Play". Again I was not convinced of its merits, but it fulfilled the brief, and they liked it. I went to see it. The audience raved about it. I was speechless.


It's to be done again this Christmas, by a different group, which is quite gratifying.


Finally, I wrote a community drama, "Barabbas". I did it because I'd been saying I would and it seemed a good idea to follow through, rather than be known as someone who talked and never did.


Barabbas was one of the hardest things I ever wrote. Every scene was agony. Every line was written several times. Oh, the days when I would put in nine hours solid, have several pages, only to delete the lot the next day and start again. I would go to sleep each night working out the kinks, and wake up every morning ready to take notes. I thought about it over lunch, when I should have been listening to the sermon in church, when I was in the dentist's waiting room. I spoke into my dictaphone while I drove or walked the dog, or did the housework.


It took some months, but Barabbas was finally finished. I sent it to a publisher where four other of my plays have found a home: Eldridge Publishing (www.histage.com). They have rejected as many of my works as they have accepted, and I was fully prepared to have this play thrown back at me.


It was accepted. The editor called it "A fascinating exploration of the last days of Christ", and said it had "richly nuanced characters which makes us really care what happens to them." She went on, "From the opening, bracing violence, to Barabbas' final line, "Because he died for me", we found the play utterly absorbing, compelling, and ultimately uplifting." 


Needless to say, the letter made my day, my week, my month. It buoyed me up and made me feel that maybe I COULD still do this. It showed me that I shouldn't judge my own work when I am in a low frame of mind, and it taught me to keep the faith.


I'm writing again. I'm feeling confident in my abilities again. And it feels good.

A time to write, a time to read...

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

In the last few months, my writing time has been seriously depleted. Family commitments, fighting for my son's funding, ill health, church, charity and work commitments, all have taken their toll on my writing until not writing had become a habit that was very difficult to break. I want to write. I have ideas ready to turn into pieces of writing. I'm just not doing it.

So, time for some drastic action, methinks.

So, for the next few days I am taking myself out of circulation and into a writing retreat of my own making. I'm shutting down my internet connection, turning off both my landline and mobile phones, and hunkering down. I'm not available to meet with friends, to work, to attend events. I am, in short, off the grid.

I intend to spend the next few days doing nothing but writing. All day, every day. I have my work ready to begin, I've got the books I need for research, and I'm going for it. I hope to come back to civilisation about 10,000 words better off, and with the habit of not writing firmly broken.

Because if I don't take myself in hand and get on with it, who else will make me?

And in the evenings, instead of sitting in front of the TV, or answering non essential emails, I shall read. I aim to get through at least two of the books on my to be read pile.

See you all the other side!

At long last!

It took some time, about a year. But finally, the powers that be have decided to let my son know where his future lies. (See post 14th April). As of this week, both Continuing Health Care and Social Services have agreed to fund his place at his residential home.

This means he can stay where he is happy and well looked after, and both of us can look forward to a more settled future. I no longer have to temper each decision with "If Steve comes/doesn't come home". I can plan for things more long term than next week.

I am thrilled he has his funding, and relieved he will stay in the place that is best for him. I am, however, very aggrieved that it took a year of wrangling and horse trading, appeals and counter appeals, meetings which were abandoned because the correct staff members didn't turn up, other meetings that were cancelled because the information wasn't in place, decisions that couldn't be made because someone was on annual leave (What? They only have one person who can deal with a case? What if, God forbid, something dire happened to that person?).

I made my position clear from the start. I wanted Steve to stay where he was, but I was well aware of the financial position and realised that we can't always get what we want. Therefore, I would accept the decision if it went against us, all be it with a heavy heart. I just wanted the situation resolved. I just wanted to know where we stood. Is that so much to ask?

The basic problem seems to be that the disabled and their carers are not classified by the authorities as people. We are counters on their snakes and ladders board, and as such we can be moved up and down at will, never quite reaching the end, and never quite mattering.

Steve and I deserve an apology for the stress, uncertainty and sheer bad manners that we have been subjected to. We won't get one. Alas, nor will we have the satisfaction of knowing that no other family will have to put up with similar treatment.

It's a disgrace.

Calling all actors in Crowborough area

As a teenager I joined an amateur dramatics group. It was a wonderful way to indulge my passion for theatre, meet people and boost my confidence.

Over the years I moved offstage and left the performance to those younger, prettier and more able.  I worked backstage as prompt and props mistress, or front of house selling programmes, tickets and drinks.

I write plays and have been lucky enough to see my work published and performed throughout the world, but local drama still has the greatest pull on my heart. I frequently travel to nearby towns to see a show. Uckfield, Framfield, Rotherfield, I’ve enjoyed them all.

Which is why it saddens me so little drama is being performed in Crowborough.

Oh, there are drama groups. Crowborough Players has existed for as long as I’ve lived here, and Mark One Drama was formed in 2006. Both groups have entertained us in the past, though neither produced a pantomime last winter – disappointing for a town this size.

For those who enjoy Christian drama, there’s also Rainbow, based at All Saints Church, but they too have been quiet of late.

One reason for all this silence is a lack of members. People moved away or grew older and less able and no new members took their places, so numbers dwindled. Actors are precious, directors like gold dust.

But drama groups are wonderful builders of community. Drama is, after all, teamwork. Being involved with a production is exciting, rewarding and satisfying. Soon, there'll be a brand new performance hall in the town, and it would be a shame if there was no vibrant drama group ready and waiting to move into it.

So here’s a challenge. I have a pantomime script, available to Crowborough, free of charge. We have a tentative yes from a director. Now we need actors, dancers, musicians and back stage crew.

If you'd like to be part of this year's panto, drop me a line on hilary.mack@talk21.com, or at my twitter account: @hilarymackelden 

Together, we can build drama in Crowborough. 

Gentleman in waiting.

For the next week, my son and I are in limbo. This is not a new state of affairs, we have been in limbo for some months now. So long, in fact, that it has begun to feel normal, which can't be a good thing. Can it?

It isn't something we can control, and that has been the hardest thing to come to terms with. I for one, like to know what's going on, where I am heading. I make plans, basing them on what I expect to be doing in a month, six months, a year. They might change, be amended. But they form a basis for my life, and give me a sense of security.

Well, it's true what they say. God laughs at the person with plans.

The cloud of uncertainty hanging over our lives is courtesy of three things: Social Services, (SS) the National Health Service (NHS), and the British economy. All of them move very slowly, and take no account of the turmoil their inability to hurry may cause in the lives of us mere mortals. And there's nothing we can do to make them move faster. Nothing at all. Believe me, I have tried.

The problem is that my son needs constant care. He has Prader Willi syndrome, a genetic abnormality that has left him mentally and emotionally handicapped, slightly physically disabled and with an addiction to eating that means, if left unsupervised, he would, quite literally eat himself to death. He is also one of the nicest and most wonderful people I know, and he deserves the very best that life can offer.

Three years ago, he went into a residential home for people with PWS. At the time, he was 26 stone + (That's about 360 pounds) and was morbidly obese, so the NHS paid the home fees, which are very expensive. In the home, access to food is restricted, the diet is strict, the exercise regime exacting and in three years, my son has lost half his body weight.

Yup. He's lost 13 stone (180 pounds). And when you consider his addiction to eating is accompanied by a very low metabolism that makes weight loss even harder than it is for most of us, this is an accomplishment above and beyond. I am so proud of him.

Unfortunately, he is now a victim of his own success. NHS, you see, do not pay for preventive care. When he was morbidly obese, he had a health problem that needed treating, so they paid to treat it. Now, he no longer has that health problem (his food addiction is not counted) and so they will not pay the fees of the home.

They passed the problem on to SS. They don't want it, thank you very much. They passed it back, and for the last few months it has been going back and forth like a ping pong ball, each trying to force the other to pay for the care my son needs. All the time they argue, he stays where he is, which is a good thing, but his future is in a state of flux, which is not so good.

We can plan nothing. Should he sign up for a college course for next term? Will he still be in the home and able to access that course by then? Should he buy things for his bedroom in the home, or is he liable to be packing them up soon?

And for me, things are no less uncertain. Like many writers, I could do with an improved income but it isn't easy looking for a job when one has to say, "Well, yes, I am available for work at the moment, but in three weeks I may be caring full time." I can't plan to go to a seminar or an exhibition because I don't know whether I'll be able to take my place.

Six months ago, thinking I was living alone now, I considered moving from my family home to a smaller place. But if he DOES come home, we'll need the room this house offers. So I don't move. If I am to stay permanently, I will decorate, and landscape the garden. But what if I do that and then he doesn't come home and I am to move?

It really isn't good enough. I appreciate they are making sure everything is done properly, but it shouldn't take several months - nearly a year now. When people's lives are on hold, decisions should be made at a greater pace than this.

At long last, after many false starts, they've agreed to meet next week and decide his future. They may not decide what we would have them decide, but at least they will decide something. And finally, we'll feel as if we've reached terra firma once more.

Brave New World

Last night, I attended a talk given by David Taylor of 2010Media, a company that specialises in helping people, companies and organisations improve their communications in the age of social media. It was a fascinating talk, and I learned a lot. Talking with other attendees, I wasn't the only one.

Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, Youtube and all the others have completely changed the world. I already knew that. But I don't think I had realised how that change affected ME. For years, I plodded on, ignoring the inane comments on Facebook ("Had rice Krispies for dinner, lol) and the indecipherable text speak sentences on Twitter: ("R u coming 2 c me L8er 2nite?") I couldn't figure out Linked In, or My Space, and hadn't a clue about Youtube. It was for kids who'd left the age of the mobile phone behind, right?

Wrong.

A few months ago, I realised that if I was ever going to achieve my dream of making a living as a writer, I had to do all I could to raise my profile. Gone were the days of writing a book/script/article and shyly handing it to the publisher/director/editor before scuttling away to anonymity to write some more. Behind us are the times when the publisher's promotion team does all the PR work and leaves you to your art. A writer today has to be prepared to market their work, create interest in it, pitch it.

I worked on the basis of one simple truth: the more your name appears in public, the more people will have heard of you, and if the name is familiar, they're more likely to give you time and space to make that pitch. They're more likely to take you seriously.

So, I started trying to use social media sites more effectively. I increased the amount of traffic I generated, and I tried to make sure that traffic was interesting, entertaining and informative so that readers would enjoy it and come back for more. I tried to make sure the writing was good quality - even within the 140 characters of Twitter. No point telling everyone you're a writer and then leaving a badly written sentence where the world and his wife can trip over it. That'd be like telling everyone you were a chef and then serving up burnt shepherd's pie.

I've made many new friends and contacts through social media. Some of them are people who enjoy my posts, which is gratifying and boosts my confidence. Some of them share my passion for writing, which eases the loneliness of the work. And some of them have been in positions to help me, giving me tips to improve my chances of success, helping make the work better, advising me of markets and competitions that will do me good, introducing me to people who may be interested in working with me.

None of them are people I would have met in the street of my town. Most would never have opened a letter from me, or even an email. Yet, social media has made them accessible.

The world is shrinking. Opportunities are growing. All we have to do is keep up with the traffic.

When you can't reach the end...

You've been working on your latest project for some time. You've researched, written, plotted and planned, found the weak points and chiselled them out, filled the holes and made it make sense. You're a few thousand words from the end.

And it grinds to a halt.

You know how it ends. You know what you want to say. You even have the wording for the very last line absolutely perfect. But you just can't seem to get there.

If you're not deleting more than you're adding in, and not convincing yourself that every word so far is utter rubbish, then you'll be taking a degree course in procrastination. There is a sudden urgency to bath the dog and clear out the attic, or go back to the beginning and check for weak words like just and very and nice. Anything, ANYTHING, but write those final words.

Something I've found helps is to have another work lined up and waiting to be started. A few tantalising notes in a loose leaf book, a couple of lines about a character, a dialogue quote. What ifs and whys and wheres scribbled, or cryptic sentences spoken into a dictaphone. Pretty soon, a new project is taking shape and demanding to be written, and I am champing at the bit to get to it.

Suddenly, procrastination doesn't seem so enticing. I want to finish this work so I can get started on my new piece, a piece that is going to be the best thing I ever wrote, my great masterpiece, the ONE. At which point, I knuckle down and write those last few pages, and write those immortal words:

The End.

If you have trouble finishing, try it. It can't hurt. And it might just work.

A day at a time

I never know, from one day to the next, how I will feel. Heck, I don't know from one hour to the next how I'm going to feel. One day, I am on top of the world. I have energy, I'm full of life and plans and future and I think I'm healed. Next day, back down and getting up in the morning is an effort.

I've spent most of the summer as a zombie but now I am actually staying awake for about seven hours a day, which is a vast improvement. I walk the dog on the forest every morning, no excuses. It's an effort sometimes, but the fresh air and movement must be doing me good.

And I try to write at least a side of foolscap every day. Some days, I do two or three and am still pleased with them twenty four hours later. Other days, I struggle to fill one side and when I read it back it's rubbish. But I AM doing it.

It helps that I have three projects lined up, so I feel them calling to me and that means procrastination makes me feel guilty. One of those projects actually has a deadline, so that should be a help too.

As a Christian, I felt extremely guilty when I entered this depression. Part of me was thinking, "you believe in God, you should trust in Him and not get upset and worried. Give it to Him." It felt like I was somehow letting the side down.

But then I remembered the utter despair Jesus felt in Gethsemane and on the cross and I realised, if He felt the blackness descending, then it was nothing to be ashamed of. And that realisation is one step towards recovery.

I also remind myself daily that this took a long time to hit. There were many factors, over a long period of time, that led me to this place. If it takes you several years to dig a hole, you won't fill it in in one day.

Patience.

I may not get everything done I would wish to get done each day. But each day, I get a little nearer to being the me I used to be.

I just have to learn patience and take it one day at a time.

Coming back to life

It's been quite a summer. One when I spent most of every day and night tucked up in bed, sleeping. I forgot what mornings looked like. In fact, I forgot what the world looked like.

Worst of all, I forgot what writing is like.

Depression is a dreadful thing. No-one can see you're ill, there's no limb missing or blood gushing, so most people can't see why you're not yourself. And since depression doesn't always have an obvious cause, there is often precious little sympathy.

My situation had been building for years. It wasn't a quick fall, and it wasn't a bolt from the blue. It had built up a head of steam, and when the lid blew off, boy, did it go up! And the whole world ended.

I couldn't go in to my job at World In Need. That made me feel guilty. I kept thinking, these people are far worse off than I will ever be, what is wrong with me? The children are starving, the people in Pakistan are drowning, and I am wallowing in self pity.

My doctor forbade me to go there, and now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see he was right. I could not have coped with the emotions of it all, and I would have added to the burden of my colleagues. Not good.

I also couldn't go to church for several weeks. I couldn't face it. Nor could I face shopping, walking the dog, or even doing the washing up. (And yes, that is one of the best excuses ever.) I went to a friend's wedding, a place where I knew loads of people and had a panic attack about going there. I burst into tears for no apparent reason. I couldn't even read half the time.

But worst of all, was the inability to write. Writing is my life. And every day that went past wordless added to the feelings of failure and misery.

I tried. I really did. I tried starting the next of my romance novels. After several days, I felt it wasn't what I should be writing at this time, so I put it aside till I was feeling stronger. Instead, I started writing a pantomime. It took me three times as long as usual, and I was wracked with self doubt. I didn't think it was funny, it wasn't coherent, it was a mess. But when I showed it to people who would not hesitate to tell me the harsh truth, they loved it. Said it was the funniest thing I had written.

Bit perverse, if you ask me.

And now, I've been asked to write a play. With some trepidation, I sat down yesterday. I was so lacking in confidence, I thought I would try and sketch an outline before accepting the challenge of writing it. By last night, the treatment was done and the director is pleased with it. Maybe the drought is over. At last.

So now, like a seed at the end of winter, I am waking. It's not an overnight process, but then I didn't sink overnight. And if I am writing, at least I have hope.

A shot across the bows

This picture shows me and Harrison Mungai of iServe Africa at Carura Church in Nairobi in May 2009. I think it says it all about my need to change, at least physically.

A week ago, I announced that it was the start of the rest of my life, and I would be endeavouring to change. Boy, was that a prediction! I soldiered on for a few days, trying to lose weight (lost a pound, so was feeling OK about that) writing and lamenting the lack of time to do so. I dearly wished I could have more time to me.

Well, you should be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it.

Tuesday of this week, I had some pains in my chest and side. I thought I had twisted it, or eaten something that disagreed with me. I took things easy and waited for the pain to go away.

Throughout the day, it came and went. Each time it came back it got stronger. I went to bed with ibuprofen and hoped to sleep it off.

No such luck. By 3.30am, I was in agony. Nothing I did would make the pain go away. I felt like someone was crushing my chest under heavy rocks at the same time as stabbing me, hard. I wondered whether to call the out-of-hours doctor. Being me, I decided not to waste his time.

8.15am, I called my GP's surgery. I explained my symptoms to a very unsympathetic and dismissive receptionist, who said the duty doctor would phone me. I gave my mobile number and went to work. Although fat lot of use I was there. I couldn't concentrate, I was tired, ill and in pain.

The doctor phoned and I explained my symptoms. Within ten minutes, an ambulance was outside my workplace, and I was carted away, feeling very foolish and a bit of a fraud. When they discovered this was just indigestion, they were all going to be rather cross with me.

Only it wasn't indigestion. It was my heart. And I am a very lucky lady. Not only am I still alive, but there is no actual damage to the heart muscle. I have the chance to get better.

So, that diet I was sort of kind of doing has become imperative. That one pound a week I was sort of kind of aiming for losing has now become a minimum target. I've cut out cakes and chocolate, sugar and unnecessary fats and salt. I'm taking gentle exercise, and resting when I need to do so. No more alcohol - not that I drank more than a few times a year anyway. Lucky for me, I have never smoked.

My father died of heart disease aged 59. I don't want to join him. I want to see my grandchildren grow up, and reach my goals, attain my dreams. All of which rely on me making sure this warning shot across the bows is heeded.

On the plus side, I am now going to get some time to me, to write. I'm not expected to do so much, I'm not expected to run ragged after my family and friends, I've even got a few days off work. So no cloud is completely without a silver lining.

I just would have liked the lining without the storm cloud, thank you very much.

Watch this space, as I go from death's doorway to fit and healthy in the shortest possible route.