With thanks to Mr Cute

About 18 months ago I decided it was time for us to have a dog in our lives again, having lost our beloved rescue dog Ralfie back in 1997.  Looking back, it could have been considered madness. I had an elderly mother to care for and two cats - one who gave the impression that she'd never accept a canine intruder in her house.

Today we celebrate the first year of Alfie living with us and I do it with much joy and a hint of sadness.  I now know that I was led to him (and he was led to me) for a reason.  Put quite simply, I wouldn't have coped as well with the passing of my mum if it hadn't been for him.  He's given me a reason to get up, to smile and to feel love again.  There's nothing quite like doggy kisses first thing in the morning when you wake up feeling low.

I firmly believe that my dad popped the idea into my head on the fateful day that I decided it was 'doggy time' again - he knew it would be what I'd soon need in my life to help me through.

Today reaffirmed that 'stuff' happens for a reason.  On Alfie's first anniversary with us, he more or less re-enacted a pose that our much missed Ralfie did all those years ago. 

Right dog, right time, right place.

From Ralfie to Alfie

And furthermore, he was the inspiration behind my latest novel, 'KISSING FROGS AND DOGS'. So thank you, Alfie.  For the love, the laughs, the hope and the massive lump I have in my heart and my throat as I write this.  As a bundle of cute, you do a pretty good job.

PS:  Mrs Nervy Cat is now totally cool with her new house-mate.  It took a year, of her taking sanctuary in her 'penthouse' above the fridge, but we got there in the end!

Broken Funny Bone

I'm not blowing my own trumpet here but I know that I have many readers who eagerly await my June and December releases.  I thank them for their support and loyalty and I owe them my best.

At the moment I don't think I can deliver that.

Oh, I've been writing like a demon.  35,000 words of one novel and 13,000 of another but ... I'm just not feeling it.  I don't think they're good enough and I won't ever put something out there that I'm not proud of.

When my mum passed away, almost seven months ago, people kept telling me to be kind to myself.  At the time, I didn't understand what they meant.  Now I think I do.  I cared for my mum for almost nine years and now I don't know my life any more.  It's different, beyond different and that's going to take some getting used to.

If I had a regular job to return to where I had daily tasks, routine and a structure, it would obviously be another story.  But writing, especially light, fluffy chicklit, is a whole different kettle of fish.  I don't feel funny.  I don't feel quirky.  I feel grey, bleak and dull - my readers don't want that.  Every sentence is a struggle and the plots aren't allowing me to inject my usual sprinkle of humour.

In short, I'm going to start being kind to myself.  I'm going to stop beating myself up and hold my hands up and say. 'It's OK to cancel my December release.  It's better that way'.  I'm also going to congratulate myself for finding the resolve to get my June release out on time, against difficult odds.

I'm fortunate enough that, although I won't be physically working, I'll still be earning a living from my other books and I'll also have the time to actively promote them and maybe blog a bit more.

So, apologies to those I'm letting down.  Who knows, inspiration might strike and I might ease myself in gently with a Christmas novella but, for now, I'm just letting plots bubble in my head until I feel strong enough again.

As always, thanks to all those who have read my books and continue to support me - not only with my writing but also through a tough time.

Grief

Grief.
Such a short word.
But it hurts.
Sometimes.
Other times it leaves you numb and feeling like you're looking down at yourself - a bit like you're detached from your body or waking up from a nightmare.

My lovely mum is gone.  How did that even happen?  Silly question.  She was 88, had come to the end of her journey and ... pffft ... passed.  But at 51, I wasn't ready.  There was still so much to say and so much I THOUGHT I could do for her. I was wrong. Time ran out and that stinks.

So what does grief and the stupid grieving process mean to me?

* feeling like my life will never be the same again. And of course it won't.
* hating the fact that my life will never be the same again. And panicking.
* lying in a bath until it goes cold because I don't see the point of getting out.
* forgetting to get dressed. Again, what's the point?
* constantly saying sorry. 'Sorry Mum. I could have done this or I should have done that.'
* wondering when I'll feel 'normal' again.
* not wanting to feel 'normal' again.
* trying to find 'me' in a new routine.
* not having a routine.
* making excuses to myself for not going back to her house.
* (this is a bad one - don't think I'm totally evil, please) looking at old people and asking why they're still alive and my mum isn't.
* contemplating 'What's it all about?' Is she really with my dad now?  Is she really finally at peace and happy?
* asking myself if I'll ever write again.  How can I immerse myself in a world of fluffy fun and frippery when my heart is black and heavy.
* knowing that my mum would give me a good telling off and tell me she was proud of me and FORCE me to write again.
* praying that the 'Oh no' feeling will stop and I'll wake up one morning and see some joy again and a reason to get out of bed.

THAT'S what grief means to me.

On the upside ... I've lost a stone in weight and truly know that I am feeling this pain because I had the best mummy ever.

And she will help me find my way.

Somehow.

With my Mum on her last birthday

Asking for a Friend ...

I have a friend ...

She's mainly happy but often sad and sometimes a little bit broken but she pulls herself up and carries on because she has no choice.

Her husband is her rock and, on bad days, she feels she'd be nothing without him.  But she knows - in her darkest moments - that if it comes to that, she would have to, once again, pick herself up and carry on. To mix the happy with the sad.

You see, she's watching someone slowly slip away from her - not dying but gradually, almost as if ounce by ounce, become another person on a journey that they can only take for themselves.

It's hard. She feels lonely, frightened, angry, isolated, tired, fed-up and sometimes - just sometimes -  a little bit sorry for herself.

Losing someone you love is always hard but when you start to blame yourself - and other people - for their demise, it's unbearable.  To the point where it physically hurts.

She asks herself what could she, and those significant others, have done differently?  Is it too late to turn back the clock now?

In reality, probably yes.

The damage has been done.

My friend will do what she can, gritting her teeth, allowing silent tears to fall whilst wondering just how it came to this sad and bitter end.

And through all of that, she'll mentally plan an inevitable funeral that won't be a fitting end, surrounded by love and happy feelings that the person she's losing so deserves.

In the meantime, she'll keep on keeping on.  With love in her heart, as much patience as she can muster, tiredness in her bones and a little piece of bitterness that will never understand why people can't see what she is seeing.

What would you do?

Asking for a friend ...

Katie Hopkins ... Her Stupid Story

Regular followers may be slightly surprised by this post as I’d made a vow never to mention the vile Katie Hopkins ever again - I figured if people stopped giving her a platform she might simply shrivel up and disappear - but, after (foolishly) watching the farce entitled ‘My Fat Story’, I was so incensed by her arrogance and stupidity I felt the need to have another pop at her.

For those who haven’t seen the programme, Ms Hopkins (self declared fat hater) decided to educate the masses by gaining 3 stone in weight and then shifting it ASAP.  The phrase ‘eat less, move more’ was rammed down our throats as she rammed meal after meal, snack after snack down her own revolting throat.

Not only was this a ‘No-Sh*t- Sherlock’ approach to diet and exercise but it was also an incredibly naive experiment.  No great surprise there, given who we’re dealing with, but even the doctors who checked her out before her bingeing began said that it was unwise and that they didn’t recommend her going ahead.

But go ahead she did, determined to prove her points.

If you eat a lot and don’t move - you get fat.

When you stop eating and take up exercise - you lose weight.

Really?!  Oh, Ms Hopkins where would we be without your wisdom?

Now … here’s where I have the problem.  I am considered to be a ‘normal, healthy weight’.  I have no issues with food but I’m well aware that there are people who do, and to imply that it’s as simple as ABC to shift weight if you have an eating disorder is ignorant and small-minded.

Of course Ms Hopkins would have no problem going back to her old eating and exercising habits - it’s who she is and she’s clearly also someone with a naturally high metabolism.  Although, as the rugby players pointed out when they first saw her skeletal-bikini-clad bones, she could do with keeping on a few of those gained pounds.  Quite frankly, she looked like an under-nourished ten year old with an old lady’s head glued on top.

We are now all well aware that Ms Hopkins wouldn’t employ a fat person - a statement she’s incredibly proud of.  After learning more about her through this programme, how would she feel if someone told her they wouldn’t offer her employment because she’s epileptic?  Not nice, is it?

And now that we’ve been ‘enlightened’ on weight-loss, I wonder if she’d like to try bulimia or anorexia for a few months - and then oh-so-miraculously snap out of it.  Or how about alcoholism?  Or here’s a good one … pop your dressing gown on and sink into the depths of depression/panic attacks/anxiety and then show all the sufferers how simple it is to shed your gloom and start living again.

Because it’s really that simple, isn’t it Katie?

Finding your Happy Place.

People who know me and love me would say that I can sometimes be a bit of a control freak and can very often be black and white with my opinions.  I hold my hands up in surrender and admit to both of these accusations.

 My name is Amanda Egan and I am what I am.

There's nothing like life and experience to make you realise that there can come a time when you have to change your way of thinking - you can't always be in control of things that happen, you can't influence people and sometimes you have to 'roll with it' rather than drive yourself nuts.

Over the last few years there have been about four life changing issues that I've had to do battle with.  I won't go into details but, suffice it to say, I've realised that there's only so long you can give 'set in stone' situations any more head-space.

There are two routes:

Madness.

Peace and acceptance.

I tried the first option and it didn't work for me.  Sleepless nights, constant inner turmoil, voicing worries/discussing with hubbie and/or friends - nothing changed.  The worries and problems remained as large as life, refusing to leave.

So ... I booted them out.  I didn't need them.  How were they enhancing my life?  And, if I was totally honest with myself, the misery I was putting myself through would never actually affect the future outcome.

I guess that's what my husband is so good at - being pragmatic.

Definition: dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical considerations.

Maybe a bit of the pragmatist has rubbed off on me (no euphemism intended) but once I learnt to let go, I felt a whole lot happier.

My energies are much better being channelled towards the characters who live in my head.  And that's not madness, that's a happy place!

When it's best to keep quiet.

People have been asking why I've not been posting any blogs, other than FUNKY FRIDAY, and I guess I owe those loyal followers an explanation.

How do I sum this up without giving too much away or ranting?

I'm tired, sad, angry, emotional and not too much fun to be around at the moment.  I feel like I'm grieving - grieving for many things but with no actual death to show for it.  That's a funny kind of grief - but it doesn't make me laugh. And it doesn't make me want to write blogs that will draw in the crowds - no one likes a misery.

I'm just so relieved that I have my new novel under my belt and undergoing the editing process because, right now, I don't have it in me to lose myself in another world - my real one is too consuming.

In short, I take my hat off to all those carers who do it for love - it's a 24/7 job and often has little reward.  It's so hard to keep someone UP as they drag you DOWN.  It's also hard to remember that you love that person with all your heart, to not resent them and to remember to think of yourself in amongst all the other stuff you're dealing with.

I realised, on yet another sleepless night last week, that I've had a total of seven years of caring in unusual circumstances - I'm not talking just being a mum, or a daughter to an elderly parent.  In 2006 my mum had a tough time and needed to be guided through it.  As soon as she 'emerged' my son then developed school phobia and I needed to be there to see him through that.  He's now left school but I find myself back on 'Mum Duty' again.  In all of those years, I haven't had one holiday.  No, I'm not asking for you to bring out the violins, I'm simply stating the facts as they are.

I love them both - I will do anything for them.  I've proved that.  But now, I'm tired and a little bit fed up.

That's why I've not been blogging.

Thank you all so much for your support and love - whether it's been through Facebook, Twitter, emails, phone-calls, texts or lovely, little parcels.  You know who you are.

Dear Kate ...

Dear Kate, (or any other new mum)

Firstly, congratulations. You're a mum for the first time and regardless of the spotlight being on you, you'll  be feeling like all new mummies - knackered and bewildered.

I only ever experienced those feelings once, nearly eighteen years ago, but watching your face as you left the security of your hospital room yesterday brought it all back to me.  It's an exciting and terrifying time - hugely rewarding, draining and a constant learning curve.

So here are Mummy Misfit's tips on surviving motherhood.

* He might be a real Prince but every son is a Prince to his mum.  Remember he's YOURS.  He's your precious bundle and what you say goes.  Spend time with him, get to know him, don't let people insist they have a piece of him.  He COULD be your only child - no one can predict that they'll have the 2, 3, 4 they want.  Cherish every minute as if he's your last baby.

*  If you want to breast feed, give it a go.  If you can't, don't beat yourself up.  Some can, some can't.  It's not a competition and you can only do what works for you and your baby.

* You'll sometimes feel like you don't have a clue what you're doing and everything you do is wrong.  You'll ask for advice and some of it will make sense but you'll still want to try to have a go at doing things your way.  Sometimes it will work, sometimes you'll stuff up and wish you took the advice.  That's part of being a mum.  Don't let people give you advice you don't want - tell them politely that you're fine.  Opinions can overload your thoughts to the point that you don't remember your own.

* There will be times that you're cross-eyed with tiredness.  I had a baby who liked to feed every hour on the hour for the first year of his life.  You'll get to the point where you think you can't cope.  You will.  You have no choice.  And it does come to an end.

*  Your body will do what it wants to do, in its own time so be kind to yourself and don't expect too much too soon.  What's wrong with a 'baby belly'?  Wear it with pride - it's much more attractive than the wrinkles and grey hairs they give you as they get older!

*  You'll never sleep the way you used to, pre-baby.  From those early sleepless nights you'll move on to  colic, teething, nappy rash, coughs and colds.  As a mum you develop a third ear - what was that noise?  Are they OK?  Then they grow up, refuse to go to bed, play loud music, go out on the town and leave you awake and worried. Your sleeping days are over!

*  He'll  bring out instincts in you that you had no idea you had.  You'll become a fighting, spitting tigress if you need to.  Only a mum can know this and it will surprise you the first time it happens.

* Your husband is your best friend and ally. Don't fight one another when you're both tired because you both want the same thing - a happy baby and a good night's sleep!  Keep talking and, when you can, have a giggle.

* You'll think that every mum is doing a better job than you.  They're not - every baby is different so if your best friend's baby is sleeping through the night at six weeks, big deal.  Your baby's the best, and you know it!

*  One minute he'll be snuggled on your lap and  the next he'll be a strapping lad with thoughts of his own.  You won't believe the speed with which that happens.  For a while, it passes slowly then ... woosh, they're an adult.

There you go - my Misfit tips on motherhood.  I may have only had one baby, but the feelings are the same and if just one of my thoughts goes on to give a new mummy an ounce of comfort, I'll be happy.

Above all, enjoy your time and sleep whenever you can - that final piece of advice is one I never took.  Why would I want to sleep when I had a lovely baby boy to look at?

A Blogless Blog

Sorry but I don't have time to blog this week ...

In fact I just don't have time FULL STOP.
I'd like to reach the end of my tether but it keeps moving the goalposts.
So I'll just keep recharging my batteries and, in the words of my lovely dad, say 'Keep going you fool!'

Because I have no choice ...

She's Ba-a-a-ck ... !

So the dreaded 'dry socket' managed to take up roughly two weeks of my life.  Trust me, you never want to experience the unrelenting pain that comes with this condition - at one point I was convinced I was going mad and it wasn't until I read of others' experiences that I realised this wasn't unusual.  The anecdotes ranged from thoughts of self harming, O/D-ing on pain killers and bashing heads against walls.  Yep, it's really that bad.  And before any haters come back with 'Well serves you right, you smoke, so you deserved it!', I had already considered this but then age is a factor, as is sex (not the jiggy variety) - women are more prone - and also those on the contraceptive pill.  Being a female smoker with dodgy old gums was enough for me to fall prey.

I have to say those two weeks were possibly the most boring of my life - between trips to the dentist to have my socket dressed (son's comment - ''Ooooh, does it look faaabulous now?!'), counting the hours until the next dose of pain-killers and rinsing with copious amounts of mouthwash or salt water, all I did was watch crappy TV and heat up my wheat bag to whack on my throbbing cheek.  Now let me tell you, dear reader, I'm not good at doing nothing - I hate it with a passion and my inertia, combined with the paracetamol/ibuprofen, meant that a mini-depression set in.  The Misfit, when she's miserable, is a cow to be around and I thank my hubbie, son, mum and cats for their patience.

One thing that did cheer me up and bring a huge smile to my face came from a desperate need to escape re-runs of 'George & Mildred' and vomit inducing episodes of 'The Real Housewives of Atlanta' - see I told you I was bad.  Feeling quite sick with the rubbish TV I'd been drip-feeding on, I grabbed a DVD and settled with a cuppa.  If you haven't seen this film - do it now! 

Oh, how I loved it!  Beautifully filmed, 30's glamour, romance, humour and just yummy from start to finish.  I felt like I'd devoured a box of chocolates, swigged at a bottle of Bollinger and emerged from a frothy, scented bubble bath by the time it had finished.  I'm going to read the book next as it has some great reviews.

The trouble with finding that you've lost two weeks is having to ease yourself back in to routine and finding the discipline to start work again - I don't have a boss cracking the whip over me (sadly), so I need to do all I can to self motivate.  And life is busy at the moment, with no time for 'slipping back in' - it's all systems go in the Misfit house as we try to get 'Lottie's Luck' ready for its June publication date.  Our 'joint edit' is now under way - and we all know what that means!  Poor hubbie suffers, I scream a lot and we eventually limp our way to the finish.  I think, this time, I need to be extra nice (and less shouty/sulky) as he's put up with enough from me over the last few weeks.  Well, I'll try anyway.  Watch this space ...

I also have a birthday dinner to arrange for long-suffering hubbie, a house to organise for our Aussie niece and husband's visit next month and a book launch to plan.  Aside from that, I need to train my vocal chords for all the shouting I'll no doubt have to do at teenage son to revise as he approaches his A2 exams.  Oh, and I need to take my mum shopping for summer clothes, organise her bedding plants in tubs, decide what to wear to my son's leavers' cocktail party and make sure he's up to date with his final graphic design project.  Work-wise I need to finish the second half of this year's Christmas novella and begin to sketch ideas for my next novel - and, if that isn't enough, my other books won't promote themselves.

What was that I said about being miserable when I have nothing to do?  Well, with this lot, I'm now feeling happy - if a little panicky - so I'm off to do what I do best.  Make a coffee and write a list!