2013-06-19T17:54:36-04:00 Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=deborah-c-dooley Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Deborah C Dooley Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3458351 2013-06-18T06:59:43-04:00 2013-06-18T08:26:55-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
Words guaranteed to make anyone in the immediate vicinity either administer some kind of medical aid or grab the nearest handset to summon it. Or so you'd think. But the distressed woman's plea for help went largely unanswered - something made all the more bizarre by the fact that the above scene took place in an Accident and Emergency department. Granted, it was 3 am. Even so, the response of the receptionist seemed jaw droppingly inappropriate.

'Wheelchairs are round the corner,' she said, with a jerk of her head. Like one possessed, the woman grabbed one and yanked it out of the door. Seconds later she reappeared, pushing her gasping husband - who was, fortunately for her, a small man. He was doubled over in the wheelchair, clutching his chest. Alarmed, I waited for the receptionist to press a button, summoning medical staff with equipment.

'What's your postcode?' she asked the woman.

It was too much. Ignoring the embarrassed glances of the three other people unfortunate enough to be sharing this vacuum of human empathy, I strode up to the desk.

'Don't you think you ought to get some medical help while you're taking details?' I said carefully. I was trying for a combination of assertiveness and non confrontation, but it became quickly apparent that I'd failed. My words had the effect of dramatically peeling away the receptionist's mask of impassivity, revealing a tigress defending her cubs.

'Out!' she snarled, waving a finger at me through the glass. I watched, glassy eyed, as it described a perfect arc, backwards and forwards. She was building a defence in the air. A barricade to protect her cherished position. Her claws flexed and her lips drew back as she prepared to do battle against a potential usurper of her power. I backed away, returning to sit with the friend I had brought in with a minor injury. Her venom laden words followed me.

'We know what we're doing!'

I sent up a silent plea that this was indeed so - and applied to the medical staff as well as those working on the admin side.

The man in the wheelchair continued to gasp and clutch his chest. The woman gave her postcode. I watched covertly as the suffering man was pushed towards one of the doors in the A and E corridor, behind which who knew what happened? Good things, one hoped. Just as the woman, helped by the receptionist, who had now reluctantly left her post, (perhaps prompted by my feeble attempts at interference) reached one of the doors, a young man, his shirtsleeves rolled up, emerged from behind another. He wore a stethoscope and an air of mild irritation. Perhaps he had been disturbed by the raised voices. He regarded the chest clutching one. His expression gave nothing away as his eyes flickered over the other participants in the scene. They came to rest on the receptionist.

'Have you checked him in?' he enquired. She nodded. He nodded too and then, presumably having satisfied himself as to the source of the noise which had disturbed him, retreated back behind his door. The distressed woman and her suffering husband disappeared behind another and all was quiet once more.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3346397 2013-05-28T10:54:55-04:00 2013-05-28T11:13:17-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
'We need you to come up for a shoot,' said the picture editor. 'The magazine's going pastel.' There was a pause while she allowed this information to sink in. Then she spoke again. 'And younger.'

With a heavy heart, and sensing that if I wanted to hang on to this regular gig, any argument would be futile, I agreed.

The following week I duly made the journey from rural Devon to the address I had been given, of a photographic studio in central London. There was a fashion shoot underway when I arrived and several impossibly slender women were taking it in turns to pose and drink black coffee.

'Deborah's here,' shouted a friendly assistant, when I told her my name. A young girl hurried over and introduced herself as the makeup artist. She scrutinised my face. She frowned. Then, muttering something that might have been 'I like a challenge,' she swiftly ushered me to a chair in front of a brightly lit mirror.

'Close your eyes,' she said. I did so, just in time to avoid an eyeful of putty, which she was applying to my face with what felt like a small trowel.

'Open,' she commanded. For a second I thought I'd gone blind. Then I realised that my face had simply disappeared. No eyes, no lips, no shadows, no contours. The artist in charge of making my face fit had used a thickly applied pale beige undercoat to create a blank canvas, upon which she could create the right kind of face.

Half an hour later, I emerged from her ministrations. A pale, high cheek boned creature, smoky eyed with a wet lipped smile. Lilac is a colour I would never dream of wearing, but the lilac coloured top I was given suited the new me.

'Deborah, you look gorgeous,' said the assistant. I wanted to say that I thought I looked alright before. But instead I stood quite still while the person responsible for my transformation applied another coat of sticky aubergine lip gloss. I opened my mouth and it made a squelching noise. I was ready for my close up.

Five years later, after filing a first person piece for a national paper, I was told that as usual, a photographer would be coming to do a picture. This time, however, Hairandmakeup would be accompanying him. I shuddered and tried to protest. It was no use. No Hairandmakeup, no commission.

They arrived together, looking determined. He set up his lights, while Hairandmakeup scrutinised my face. I knew that look.

'We're going to make you look really fresh and natural,' she told me. She staggered slightly under the weight of her tool bag and I couldn't help but doubt her words.

As she worked on my face, she kept up a running commentary. She was trying to reassure me that despite its many flaws, she could make my face fit.

This time when I saw my new reflection, its blandness depressed me.

'I'm not normally this pale,' I said tiredly. The reply came in a small pink dust storm, fluffed onto my face with a kind of giant feather duster. I sighed - and coughed.

'There,' said the artist, obviously pleased with her handiwork. 'That's warmed you up a bit.'
I was ready for my close up.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3284770 2013-05-16T06:36:48-04:00 2013-05-16T07:25:56-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
'Legs like lead, legs like lead,' I panted, like a sort of tortured mantra, as I pounded along the footpath, ducking under branches. The dog streaked ahead, loving the wind and the gentle rain, as light on its paws as I was heavy on mine. My legs, that is.

I reflected as I ran. Yesterday I was bouncing with energy. Today the only thing bouncing was my bosom, I thought bitterly, in a sports bra well past its best. Yesterday breathing well, with mouth closed and everything, today puffing like an elderly walrus. As Bridget Jones once lamented when confronted with a sudden 2 lb weight gain, Why? Why?

My practical self reminded me that distraction is a good and well known technique when in pain and/or discomfort. Obediently I began composing a blog in my head. Words formed as I heaved one foot past the other. Oh look, a hill, I thought dully. Words fled in a mist of misery as my leaden legs rebelled, their heaviness making them numb and cumbersome. Gritting my teeth I instructed them loudly and profanely to keep going. The dog gave me a reproachful glance and neatly doubled back in search of a stick, narrowly avoiding tripping me up. I tried to think ahead to that night's evening meal. Something chicken-ey, perhaps, with a light mushroom sauce, mashed potatoes and greens....chocolate mousse, crisp white wine, warm bread....suddenly the terrain had changed and my leaden legs were fumbling their way downhill. Blowing out air like a labouring woman - or walrus, I noted with interest that I needed to pee.

In a renewed effort to distract myself from an increasing number of bodily discomforts, I wondered vaguely how much each leaden leg weighed. How would you weigh one of your legs? The catchy but irritating tune had returned, worming its way into my brain and ousting the leaden legs mantra. I tried to make use of it, picking up the pace slightly and trying to run in time to the beat. The dog looked impressed and scampered along beside me. I thought about my leaden legs. My treacherous legs, which had tried to betray me by becoming too heavy to lift. But I had mastered them, I thought, trying to focus on the end of my running route, which, had I been wearing my specs, would now be in sight.

I closed my eyes and grunted attractively as I rounded the final loop, immediately missing my footing on the uneven terrain. With a piercing shriek I tumbled full length onto the track. For a few seconds the only sound was the slight burbling of the river beside me, reminding me of my need to pee. And the rustling noise of the dog nosing around in leaves. As I gingerly sat up, checking myself for injury and wiping mud from the inside of my nose, I looked around me and reflected briefly that if you're going to have legs like lead, from time to time, there's no better place for it.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3229960 2013-05-07T10:57:23-04:00 2013-05-08T13:38:37-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/ I sighed, putting my hand over the receiver so that she couldn't hear. I'd heard this line of thinking many times before and I knew what was coming next.

'I mean, it's not as if we don't have it,' she said hurriedly. 'Our savings account is very healthy.'
I nodded, forgetting for a moment that she couldn't see me and then hoping that she'd sense my understanding. I felt saddened that like so many others, she felt that the love affair she was having with writing wasn't worthy of her time and money. That she didn't deserve to have this passion in her life.

I wanted her to come and stay. Both from a business point of view and also because I knew that this woman needed to write her novel. I took a breath, planning to say something reassuring but she beat me to it.

'It feels so wrong,' she continued. 'I mean it's ok to spend money on the children - or a new boiler. A family holiday even. You know - really necessary stuff. But my writing's just a hobby. How can I justify it?'

We'd been talking for ten minutes. She'd described her book to me and her enthusiasm sizzled at me. I was convinced she was a talented writer and I couldn't wait to see her work. I started to say that she needed to value her writing but she interrupted me.

'I suppose it's about identifying what's important,' she said thoughtfully. 'About valuing my writing - giving it the respect it deserves.'

I pricked up my ears. This writer obviously had an inner voice which had finally triumphed. Things were going better than I could have dared hope. I nodded again. I couldn't have put it better myself.

She stayed for a week. She wrote several thousand excellent words. One evening she read some of them aloud and when she'd finished, we all wore those slightly foolish half smiles that slide onto your face without you really knowing, when you hear something really good. The kind of writing that has a quality which can't be argued with.

When she left, she was smiling too. I hugged her goodbye, knowing that this wasn't the last I'd hear of her. Then, six months later, she came back. This time, there was no hesitation in her voice when she phoned to book her stay. And no mention of self indulgence.

'I've managed to carve out regular writing time,' she told me excitedly. 'I'm at the editing stage now.'

As soon as she arrived, I noticed her aura of calm determination. But she didn't read to us. Every evening after dinner she went back to her desk. There was an intensity about her which gave out a strong message of success.

'Keep going,' I told her, as we said goodbye at the end of her stay. 'Oh, I will,' she said firmly.
In another six months, I got an email from her. She'd signed a book deal. A good one.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2894634 2013-03-17T04:58:35-04:00 2013-05-16T05:12:02-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
'Life is like a flapjack', he mused through a mouthful of damply moulded oats. 'Sweet, often sticky, surprisingly difficult to swallow...' He paused and coughed slightly. 'And if you take too big a slice, it can choke you.'

I nodded and sipped my tea, mentally preparing myself for the kind of discussion which tends to give me indigestion. I silently congratulated myself on choosing peppermint tea - good for soothing troubled intestines.

'My point is,' he continued, 'that in the end, everything comes down to sustenance.' He got up and sauntered over to the worktop. He prised open the tin containing banana bread. I watched as, not bothering with knife or plate, he broke off a chunk and popped it in his mouth.

'It's very moist,' he commented, returning to his chair. 'Now, about my writing.' He pushed the papers towards me and I set down my mug of tea, in order to give it my full attention. Five minutes later I was still reading and he was over by the fruit bowl. He came back munching on a crisp apple and slid into his seat again. 'Good for cleaning the teeth,' he explained between mouthfuls. But I barely heard him. Beautiful writing had wrapped itself around me. Words entwining seductively with my consciousness, phrases embracing my thoughts.

If I was an agent or a publisher, I thought, I'd sign him up on the spot. I finished the piece and looked at him over the top of my glasses.

'It's very good,' I said. 'Really good.' Tears threatened and I cleared my throat, feeling ridiculous, knowing I should say something else.

He threw his apple core in the bin.

'Glad you like it,' he said. 'Mind if I make some toast?' I shook my head, glancing back at his work, feeling the delicious pull of creative talent. I smiled at him as he sliced bread and found butter and Marmite. He smiled back.

Then he sniffed appreciatively and gestured in the direction of the oven.

'What's for dinner?' he asked.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2828340 2013-03-07T10:07:42-05:00 2013-05-07T05:12:01-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/ It applies upon those odd occasions when, as a result of emotional or physical reasons, your stomach seems to have lost its connection to your mouth. Food has no interest for you, the lure of a laden table is no more and the very thought of the meal ahead leaves you cold, bored and very slightly nauseated.
But, should you choose to approach the table, seat yourself and take a mouthful - a firm sliver of pasta, perhaps, delicately laden with a creamy ham and mushroom sauce - something rather wonderful takes place. The tastebuds you thought had given up on life, react to this petit morceau by positively springing into action. Shouting with joy, they send urgently delighted messages to your stomach - and suddenly, hunger is your friend.
And so it is with writing. You may wait - mostly in vain - for Madame La Muse to pay you a visit. Weeks and months may pass and still there is no muse and no urge to write. Just the notion of writing evokes about as much pleasure as that of a lukewarm bath, and as guilt at your lack of progress joins this toxic mix of emotions, the entire business inevitably becomes shrouded in an lethargic and stale atmosphere. As time passes, although you may still think of yourself as a writer, little by little you lose touch with your craft. You say the words 'writer's block' now and again, but even to your own ears, they have a hollow ring.
Things could be very different however, if, like the uninterested diner who forces in the first forkful, you simply discipline yourself to sit down with screen or notebook and start writing. You may be stiff and wooden to start with, as your writing muscles stretch and limber up. But persevere, and remind yourself that while it may feel like mechanical writing - and it may not be the best writing you have ever done, it is still writing. And that is what you do.
Should you choose this practical and determined approach, I guarantee that despite your initial feelings of literary drudgery, more often than not, your muse will eventually put in an appearance. She may be reluctant at first. But when she sees that you mean business, she will join you wholeheartedly, adding her inspiration to your writing with all the enthusiasm of a hungry child eating a pizza.
Bon appétit.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2646642 2013-02-08T11:25:56-05:00 2013-04-10T05:12:01-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/ 'A bottle of the French red, please.' I pointed to it for emphasis. He nodded and looked even more embarrassed. I toyed with the possibility that he thought I was underage and then discounted it.
'You've just moved in across the square,' he said. I agreed that was the case. 'It's been a really long day,' I said brightly. 'And I'm so looking forward to winding down with a nice glass of wine.'
'Ah,' he said. 'The thing is...' he hesitated. I smiled and tilted my head on one side encouragingly. There was clearly some kind of barrier between me and my tipple of choice and as a newcomer to this tiny village, I recognised that diplomacy was the key to finding - and removing it.
'Your husband's already bought some wine,' he blurted out.
We gazed at each other for a moment. The brand new blow in from up country, who had yet to prove herself worthy of community life. And the village shop keeper whose gentle demeanor couldn't hide his concern that either we would unwittingly overspend during our first 24 hours in his parish, or that he was in danger of colluding in the kind of reckless indulgence that could only have negative results.
I briefly considered driving fifteen miles along dark, unfamiliar country lanes to the nearest supermarket. Then I summoned up my most charming smile.
'But he bought white, didn't he?' I said. 'He forgot that I only drink red. So the white's in the fridge for another day.'
Visibly relieved, the shop keeper handed over the much needed beverage, accepted payment, and welcomed me warmly to the village. I was still smiling a minute later when I opened our new front door and discovered that my husband had lit the huge log fire. He was sitting cosily beside it, drinking his second glass of white wine. Passing me the corkscrew and a glass, he watched as I opened the red. 'What are you grinning at?' he asked.
'I think I'm going to like living here,' I said.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2614277 2013-02-04T06:28:47-05:00 2013-04-06T05:12:01-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/ Not dolphins. Surfers.

Surfing is one of Devon's greatest lures. Its glorious coastline produces some of the world's finest waves. And thanks to cleverly designed modern wetsuit material, dedicated (and hardy) surfers can now ride their boards virtually all year round.

Nobody quite knows how it all it started, but what we do know is that the Polynesians were surfing way before the Europeans ever considered it. The Hawaians called it he'e nalu, meaning wave sliding - which seems a pretty fair description. Although they initially regarded it as more of an art than a recreation, first praying to the gods for protection (which seems eminently sensible). In 1821, however, missionaries from Scotland and Germany fetched up uninvited in these parts of the world and forbade the practice of surfing, along with a whole host of other Polynesian traditions.

This was presumably on the grounds that anything which looked that much fun must be sinful - what bores they were. Thankfully however, you can't keep a good sport down and surfing soon re-surfaced. In the manner of all thoroughly good things, it has stood the test of time ever since and by the time the Beach Boys were crooning so beautifully about the wonders of wave-linked stuff, surfing had firmly established its place in history as possibly one of the best things to happen to the human race since the cream tea. The advent of fibreglass boards in the 40s and 50s hugely increased the surfing potential of even the biggest waves. And since then there have been numerous advances in the shape and design of boards, allowing surfing to advance into previously unthinkeable realms of athleticism and daring.

I should point out here, that even if, like me, you have no hope in hell of ever surfing properly - ie standing up on a board, all is not lost. You can take a nice comfy polystyrene board out just far enough so that the waves are choppy (but not scary), point yourself in the direction of the beach, and, just as the next wave approaches, hurl yourself flat onto your board. Shrieking is perfectly permissible at this point, but your cries will be of joy as you and your board hurtle smoothly along, finishing up in the shallows - tousled and happy. (Purists will call this belly boarding, but whatever, dude.) Trust me, it's the most enormous fun, with bonus that there's no risk of that unpleasant phenomenon called a wipe out, where you and your board go right under and a lot of seawater goes up your nose.

If however, you want to have a bash at the standing up variety, you're in luck. Surfing lessons are on offer throughout Devon, taught efficiently and safely by charming young people with fantastic tans, great teeth, and beach hair. Giving you something nice to focus on while you're practising.
Watching surfing is wonderful. Doing it - standing, lying or simply clinging - is even better.
Writing about it works well, too.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2504146 2013-01-18T11:58:50-05:00 2013-03-20T05:12:01-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
Your best bet of getting your hands on one of these beauties is to do your pasty shopping at farm shops or small bakeries. There are plenty of these in Devon, allowing you to give supermarkets and petrol station shops (how can that be right?) a very wide berth in your quest for pasty delight. And should you be tempted to purchase anything other than fuel or basic foodstuffs at one of these brashly lit and soulless establishments, take it from me, my dears, the pasties you will find there are not worthy of the name. My advice to anyone seduced by their garish wrappers and synthetic microwaved fumes, is to swiftly bin the lot, and go in search of the real thing.

But if you think the word pasty is synonymous with the word Cornish - think again. Archivists have recently discovered a Devon based reference to the pasty in records dating back to 1509 - well before references to it in any other county. At the time of this remarkable find, Dr Todd Gray, chairman of the Friends of Devon's Archives, who unearthed the data, said, 'It has been a great joy for me to have discovered that pasties may have originated in Devon.' Unsurprisingly, Cornishmen everywhere have hotly refuted this and the debate rages on. However, the Cornish cause hasn't been helped by the result of a recent British Pie Awards contest to find the best Cornish pasty - which was won by a company based in Devon.

In the meantime, the difference between a Devon made pasty and one hailing from the neighbouring county is immediately obvious. The Devon variety has the pastry crimp running along the top, while the other is crimped along the side. You might also like to know that Westcountry folklore dictates that this crimped part should be left uneaten, to appease the souls of dead mariners.

Other pasty eating regions include US regions Eastern Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Michigan, Arizona and California, the Mexican state of Hidalgo and various parts of Australia. Demonstrating clearly that unlike politicians, the pasty constantly transcends geographical and political borders.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2440813 2013-01-09T12:40:01-05:00 2013-03-11T05:12:01-04:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
Each year around 3million people are lured to Dartmoor's 368 square miles of outstanding natural beauty, and each year, a good percentage of them get lost on it. The notorious Dartmoor fog has a tendency to descend, confusing ill prepared hikers and often necessitating a lengthy and expensive search and rescue operation.

And then there's the devil. Usually, legend has it, accompanied by several large black dogs, known as wisht hounds. Folklore tells us that 'the evil one' as he is traditionally known in this neck of the woods, spends his time roaming around looking for sinners. Who he then hurls off cliff tops and allows his equally evil hounds to savage.

But the definition of sinner seems to have been called into question late in the 13th Century, when the bishop of Exeter and his chaplain - surely both godly men - were travelling across Dartmoor on foot. When an old man popped out from behind a rock and offered them some bread and cheese, they were charmed - as you would be. Until the chaplain, an observant type, spotted a cloven hoof peeping out from beneath the elderly gent's cloak. Shouting 'Strewth, you're old Nick,' or something along those lines, he knocked the proffered snack to the ground, whereupon it turned into rocks. (Never a good sign where food is concerned). Having been thoroughly rumbled, the devil backed down surprisingly quickly and promptly disappeared, leaving the men of God to go on their way unharmed.

What this story tells us, of course, is that if the devil considers a bishop easy prey on the sinner front, he's hardly going to be fussy when it comes to the rest of us. Personally, if I ever encounter any kind of satanic entity, on Dartmoor or anywhere else, I intend to quickly ask if he's heard the one about the devil and the lawyer - in a bid to bond with him before he can start hurling me off a cliff or unleashing his horrible dogs. When he says no (as he will, it's a really new one), I'll explain that the devil comes to a lawyer one day and offers him a deal.

'You'll win all your cases from now on, and make huge sums of money,' says the evil one. 'But in exchange, I want your soul, your wife's soul, and the souls of your children.'

The lawyer looks puzzled and says, 'What's the catch?']]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2328044 2012-12-19T04:42:12-05:00 2013-02-17T05:12:01-05:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
But sometimes I feel as if I could, so much do I love it.

I can taste the groups of words, lovingly constructed into sentences and paragraphs, and reading them aloud brings a satisfaction akin to savouring an especially tasty mouthful of food. A juicy pear, a mouth wateringly sharp cheddar, or a meltingly perfect morsel of dark chocolate.

Reworking characters done sensitively and gently, brings to mind a chef plating up a beautifully presented platter of hors d'oeuvres or laying out wafer thin slices of finely sliced cold meats. Devising a plot twist demands the kind of unerring concentration needed for a good mayonnaise, as olive oil is added drop by drop. Get it right and the flow of the story will come together smoothly, just as egg yolks and oil combine to make the perfect mix.

I anticipate each return to my half completed novel with the same glorious anticipation provoked by the prospect of a banquet. I salivate at the thought of reconnecting with thousands of words, remembering with delight that they were produced with the same care and love needed to craft the lightest soufflé or a damply dark batch of brownies. I smile at the task ahead of me. As I do each time I tie on my apron, ready to create another fragrant casserole, a bowl of creamy mash, a fat meringue whose crisply tanned shell conceals a sweetly gooey centre.

Like a good cook, a good writer is always learning and trying out new things. Being open to new ideas, new thoughts, new recipes is what keeps both writer and cook fresh and their work innovative. The resulting words and food can only be pleasing and tasty.

My novel is always there waiting, beckoning me back in the same way that a good meal, interrupted by a knock on the door, begs you to return. Both leave a lingering aftertaste, ensuring that its intensity and depth is never far from your thoughts. And if I ate my novel, munching up all those lines and words - and swallowed the whole thing, it seems to me that all my hours and days and weeks and months and years of work would be safely tucked away inside me. Ready to regurgitate when the time comes to publish.

A strange analogy perhaps, but then I've always felt that writing and cooking have a lot in common.

Likewise words and food.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2286347 2012-12-12T12:54:47-05:00 2013-02-11T05:12:01-05:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/ You can see it in all kinds of different places. The bleeding head of a footballer attacked by a fan from the rival team. The overreaction of a driver when someone takes the parking space they saw as rightfully theirs. The comments at the end of random columns and blogs.
Just imagine if, instead of hurling a missile at the unfortunate footballer, his attacker had taken himself and his anger off to a quiet place and written about how he felt. The result would have almost certainly made dark and unpleasant reading - and of course the whole scenario is screamingly unlikely.
A less extreme example perhaps is the kind of vitriol often produced by those who take the time and trouble to comment on what others have written. Many - not all, by any means - are obviously highly competent writers. What if, instead of sniping at written words, they wrote a lot of really good words themselves? It might be a book - a bestseller even. It might be absolutely bloody brilliant.
It's easy to dismiss the angry ones as nutters, morons or psychos. But I find myself reflecting on the odd time that - in common with a great many people - I have behaved irrationally, or out of character, simply because of what life was dishing out to me at the time. When a parent snarls an obscenity at their child in a busy shopping centre, we are shocked, of course. But that parent may be stressed beyond belief because the rent is due and they have no way of paying it. And they may be hungry. We can't possibly know what's going on in people's lives.
Over the years I've had a few good reasons to be angry. With others, with myself and with life. As I've got older, I've found that if, instead of screaming and raging at the world, I go running, or make a cake - or write, the end result can be at least a little bit positive, rather than horribly negative. And in five years of running a writer's retreat, I've seen the therapeutic benefits of writing over and over again.
Anger is a very energising emotion and it seems a shame to waste it on being cross. Better surely to channel any anger that happens along into creating something. Or building something. Or writing a book.
That last one takes a lot of energy.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2244948 2012-12-05T11:25:02-05:00 2013-02-04T05:12:01-05:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
I realise that in committing those words to print, I am running the risk of a kind of literary fatwa.

Even as I type, I imagine myself being hounded and heckled by hordes of frustrated and angry writers, helpless in the grip of a horrible and inexplicable inability to pursue their chosen craft and baying for the blood of anyone who undermines their suffering. Nevertheless I stand firm in my opinion that writer's block exists only in the minds of those who need a label for their unwillingness to get down to the job in hand. It's worth mentioning here that some writers also fall prey to another nasty writerly affliction called procrastination. This manifests itself in a similar way to writer's block, by preventing the wretched writer from writing.

If you are a writer, you may have had the experience of picking up a book, reading a few chapters and then casting it aside in disgust, crying (or at least thinking) 'I could have written a book ten times better than this one!' Which of course may well be true. But the vital difference in this scenario is that you didn't - and the author did. That's the thing about writing. You can plan to do it, talk about doing it and dream about doing it. But at some point, you have to actually do it. You have to write.

One of the first things I learned as a journalist was that average copy filed on time is worth much more than brilliant copy filed late. Because - not withstanding its brilliance, the latter almost certainly won't see the light of day. Editors who have to fill pages every week and every day, need to know that they can count on enough words to do the job. And if your copy isn't there, they'll use someone else's. I've never actually tried to explain to an editor that my copy will be late because I'm suffering from writer's block, but I'm confident I know what kind of response would have been forthcoming.

As the owner of a writer's retreat, I've encountered writers who say they have writer's block. The cure, I've discovered, is simple. We sit at the kitchen table, tea and banana bread to hand (this may be an optional part of the cure) and I ask the afflicted one what they would like to write. They tell me - usually with eloquence. After a few minutes, I ask them to write down what they are telling me.
They do.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2209609 2012-11-29T04:55:05-05:00 2013-01-28T05:12:01-05:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
Common sense tells us that not a single one of us will escape death. Wealth and power may buy comfort and even expensive life saving drugs, but in the end, nothing can save us from our ultimate fate. In a nutshell, it comes to us all.

And so the question is not if, but when? And how? Along with probably a great deal more questions including will it hurt? How long have I got? Is there an afterlife? And, depending on the circumstances, why me and why the fuck now - just when everything was finally going
right?
If you'd like to read about death, you'll be glad to know that there's no shortage of material available. Numerous books and articles deal with the subject in many and various ways. And if you fancy consigning your own thoughts to print, there's more good news. According to researchers, who analysed work from psychologists and philosophers, thinking (which inevitably precedes writing) about death makes you happier. Ok, it makes you a bit miserable at first, but after that, you perk up no end, and feel better than you did to start with. Apparently the initial and natural sadness that comes with thoughts of death is followed by an increased awareness of all the important and good things in life - relationships, motivation, fulfilment, and so on.
All this is effectively brought on because thinking about death reminds us sharply that the old two step off this mortal coil is something that can happen to any of us at any time. Precious time.
When my father died, a couple of years ago, I wrote about his funeral - and the fact that I nearly didn't go to it. It was one of my best pieces, I think, probably because it came from the heart. And of course I found it cathartic. As any writer knows, just the act of putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard can unleash all kinds of hidden thoughts, fears, opinions, hopes. A veritable Pandora's box. Someone close to me is currently going through the dying process, and I shall not be writing about it, for that very reason.
But of course the unleashing process can happen with any subject.
That's the joy of writing.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2169995 2012-11-21T06:41:27-05:00 2013-01-21T05:12:01-05:00

Deborah C Dooley http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deborah-c-dooley/
The now infamous Samantha Brick didn't write that sentence. Had she done so, her words might well have provoked an even more negative reaction than the one she actually received. As it is, the original 'I'm so beautiful' feature article unleashed an unprecedented tide of fury and vitriol and, almost overnight, achieved international notoriety for its author.

One can only assume that the writer's motives for this and subsequent articles in the same vein, were to further her career. Nothing wrong in that. In today's highly competitive climate, writers need to seize any opportunity for publicity. Anyone who is serious about getting published should be prepared to use contacts, appear on chat shows and leap onto the back of any news story with a link - however tenuous - to their subject matter. These days, if you want to succeed as a writer, talent is a useful commodity, tenacity is essential and marketing and PR are vital. (The editor of a modern Charles Dickens would certainly have required the author to spill the beans on his father's debt ridden decline and eventual imprisonment.) It can also be helpful to have the kind of rhinoceros hide which easily deflects the kind of reader comments often found underneath online versions of national newspaper articles.

Having penned a string of provocative features and made an appearance on Big Brother, Ms Brick's position in the public eye now seems well established. She has earned herself a place in trivia history and her outpourings have sparked much and many a debate in both tabloids and broadsheets. I don't know if she has managed to secure herself a book deal yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. 'Beauty the Brick way,' perhaps.

Self promotion is an art, and one which any writer can aspire to and learn. How far they choose to go in the pursuit of it is their own business - and, to some extent, that of the publication that gives their work a platform. The catch of course, is that the writer may fall prey to undue pressure from an editor, so that the end result reflects the agenda of the publication itself.
Some call this wolf fodder.]]>