It's a really enjoyable challenge to be working with imagery and only very limited space for words, like with this post for a funeral director for whom I'm working. Twentymans Funeral Directors are among those incredible professionals who look after our dead (and the grieving people left behind). It's a tough and thankless job sometimes. Thankyou to elemental environments in Thames for the lovely background image that I used here.

I suppose it’s no coincidence that I woke thinking of my friend Pete this morning. A year ago today we lost him – he, having given up on the world he inhabited and leaving those who loved him shocked and searching for answers.

There is a seat now for Pete at the edge of the point break where we all surfed with him, so Pete has a presence always in a place that he found peace. It is dark, solid, hand-carved wood, with knots and lines from the tree that once breathed life into a forest around it.

As I get older, I have lost more friends and acquaintances this way and talked to friends who have been scarred by such losses too. Later in the year the community I live in lost another Pete, one whose heart for conservation was bursting with a need to give and to help. It was such tragedy that nature could not help him, when he did so much for the natural world that so needed him.

When reporting the news, you learn that you are allowed only to type a simple phrase to describe the chaos that would have swirled inside this person, and the void they leave behind.

There were no suspicious circumstances.

That we should know how and when we will die, when we have no say in how and when we are born…

But then, death is never easy for those left behind and we can only wonder how it is for those gone.
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Today became an opportunity to dance in view of the wooden seat overlooking the sea, Pete’s seat.
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​Diana Gabaldon, you have a lot to answer for.

Having recently discovered the Outlander series and binged until both series ended, I’ve moved onto your books.

The usual stack of three that nudge up on the bedside table next to me have room now only for an Eckhart Tolle and one large lump of Gabaldon imagination. I’m onto Dragonfly in Amber, the second book, and even though it’s big enough to be classified as a building material, I’m heartened to know there are at least four more to come when I’ve finished.

For those who don’t know it, Outlander is the story of a fiercely capable and extremely likeable ex-WW2 nurse Claire, who unwittingly travels back through a circle of stones in the Scottish Highlands to 1743. Here she patches up and marries her protector, Jamie Fraser, a 6’3 red-headed laird and outlaw with a body as hard as the stones Claire stepped through.

At 23, Jamie manages to be chivalrous, honourable, funny and ridiculously manly. In the series he’s played by Sam Heughan, who grunts and sly-smiles his way through clever dialogue as though he were born for the role.

Regularly called upon to rescue the leading lady, and himself, from a masochistic English captain called Black Jack Randall – who also happens to be the ancestor of Claire’s husband in the future - I have actually fallen in love.

I’m not the only one.

My sister is responsible for introducing me. She rolled her eyes as she spoke of nothing else for 45 minutes upon collecting me from the airport. We were at the start of a week-long sister catch-up that hadn’t happened in 3 years.

My sister is a midwife, and she told me the matron of her hospital has Jamie Fraser pinned to the inside of her locker. She has another friend to whom she introduced Jamie, and this woman and her husband front a major news television network. He now calls his wife Sassenach and grunts in a Scots accent (yes, I believe you can detect an accent in a grunt).

A friend demanded I read Gabaldon’s books when I lamented that the series had ended, telling me I’d get far more from the written word than I would from the screen.
“But I won’t get to look at Jamie naked,” I protested. Bright blue pools grew under black bangs of hair and I detected a wobble of skin in her emphatic shaking of head. “That’s not Jamie. He’s not Jamie.”

Actually I think Sam (we’re on first name terms) has done a fine job. So much so that I have friended him on Facebook. And he’s one of the few people – along with Gabaldon – that I follow on Twitter.

I’ve also developed a minor crush on Black Jack the bad guy, Tobias Menzies, who is actually slightly closer to my age and apparently has a strong following in Italy.
Perfectly intelligent women of all walks of life have swooned at the hands of Jamie Fraser, and it has got me thinking…thinking too much about this Scottish hunk and his independent, capable wife and their adventures in the 18th Century.

Why has it struck such a chord with us women? I think it’s the vulnerability angle. Claire lost her parents young, was raised by her archaeologist uncle and by age 26 had worked on the front line as a nurse. She’s young and cute but probably pretty stressed out and over it. She swears and doesn’t take any shit, so she’d fit my circle of girlfriends. But all of a sudden she is forced to shut her mouth and let a man take over (and he does). Jamie fights in hand to hand combat, he spanks her for misbehaving, and then he tenderly tells her he cannot live without her and he’s sorry for causing any hurt (it’s just the way he was brought up, he says – he’ll change).

Meanwhile, back in 2016, what have we done to our men?

We are in battle with them. We want them to provide for us and buy us drinks but we resent them for earning more than us (truly I don’t see why a man who does the exact same job as me should be paid more for it).

We want them to be hands-on dads but we can’t bear to watch when they discipline our kids their way.

They need to be manly, physically fit and strong – mastery of horse riding optional but advantageous.

But come on, you want to leave me with the housework and the kids and the lawns while you go off and exercise?

Many things I’ve read about the 1700s tell me that times were hard. I wouldn’t have lasted long with my big mouth and witch-like opinions. But would I have been happier?

If my mother’s generation of feminists had not demanded women have the right to work and to be recognised in the workplace, would I have bothered juggling the demands of being a working mum? Would it annoy me so much that it’s me picking the kids up, covering the mortgage and getting the drinks?

If I was born in a different time, perhaps I wouldn’t be able to creatively share myself in words, and instead I’d need to keep my mouth shut and let a red-headed warrior become my body of work. Now that’s a tough choice.
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Unfortunately, Diana Gabaldon, we working mums now have a crush on your imagination. And we are chasing a ghost.

​There are some people that stay with me long after I've written about them. It's one of the best things about journalism; getting to truly hear another person's story and spending time retelling it on the page.

​All of us have a story, and I believe all of them are worthy of sharing.

One of the people that has remained with me from the short time that I spent with her was someone I met outside the office of the Western Leader newspaper when I was 20 years old.

​My boss said; "There's a homeless woman outside. Go and talk to her." We spent an hour or so in a cramped van, surrounded by all her worldly possessions, and she brewed me a tea as we spoke.

​I trudged back up the steps of the office and wrote the story. A few months later I got a letter from her via the newspaper, telling me I had clarified something important for her when she read what I had written and this had altered the direction of her life. 

Last year I spent time working on a book with a woman called Gwen Young-James. After interviewing her, I somehow became her mentor, editor, advisor, publicist and the person that arranged the publication of the memoir that followed our interview, A Life Well Lived.

She established the first bed and breakfast in the coastal NZ town of Whitianga near where I live, and later moved to America - blagging her way into work for some of the country’s wealthiest and most influential people.

This included Walter and Leonore Annenberg, who regularly hosted presidents and royalty on their sprawling 200-acre estate, and who hired Gwen as a cook. Gwen had no formal training and wrote her own references (with no formal letterheads of course: "I'm from New Zealand - we don't have letterheads in New Zealand," she told the doubters), but proved herself to be a hard-working and trustworthy member of staff and a willing and quick learner.

It was the 1980s and, under the guidance of a great Italian chef who had once cooked for the Queen Mother, she was “like a sponge soaking up the knowledge every day”, and would cook and serve food for Prince Charles and President Ronald Reagan among the guests at the estate.

Reagan, she says, was first and foremost an actor, with great charisma that helped endear him to the nation. But it was his wife Nancy who was the strength and the brains in the relationship, she told the audience at her book launch.

Reagan was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease in 1994 at the age of 83, but as has been speculated by others that knew him, Gwen says he did show signs of the illness long before that time. “He would say to me ‘Gwen, quick can you help me find this before Nancy comes’ because he didn’t want her to know he’d forgotten.”

After some time working for the Annenbergs, Gwen worked for Marvin and Barbara Davis who at the time owned 20th Century Fox. They were wealthy beyond comprehension to New Zealander Gwen. She writes of Barbara owning three necklaces worth $3 million each, and the couple had his and hers Rolls Royce golf carts for getting about the estate. But she never let them down and she never changed who she was. She would command Barbara to stand on a stool so she could fix the hem on a ball gown. She cleaned as well as cooked, never once muttering 'I don't do windows'.

Writing the book came easy to Gwen. I now know that if you want to write a book, you must always just start, and not give up. No book is ever written by the fearful person who lets doubt get in the way of filling the page.

Many people (including me) have a book they would like to write but it takes courage, determination and sheer force of will to keep it going.

There can often be a wide difference between the story that forms inside your head and the words that appear on the page, as any writer will tell you. Gwen says the writing bit was easy, but I know from experience that’s often not the case.

Gwen began with hand written pages, starting in chronological order from her earliest childhood memories. She found a supportive friend to type up her notes and would then email me her chapters.

Whilst her version of the book began at the beginning of her life, it was obvious to me that the book needed a hook for the reader, and I re-ordered the chapters so that the story begins with the arrival of President Reagan to the Annenberg estate where Gwen was working as a cook.

Gwen has printed 2000 copies of A Life Well Lived and is speaking with a large American book store chain about publishing her book in America, which will require huge print runs.
She has joined the New Zealand Author's Association and says her book will profile in their prestigious magazine in August. “They were amazed that I had achieved so much in such a short time, they said others had taken years.”

This was her first attempt at writing a book, my first attempt at editing one, and so we have both been challenged by the ups and downs of the process but I have personally been inspired by her tenacity.

Gwen does Zumba every day, she breeds bichon poodle puppies, and she goes on regular cruises with her sister and daughter. And with her 80th birthday coming up, it will be on a cruise ship that she will research her next book. There is nothing that holds her back from asking for advice and help, which she receives gratefully and then just gets on with it. 

​“Believe in yourself," says Gwen. "Eat healthily, exercise, and surround yourself with interesting, positive people.”

​It's this philosophy that gave Gwen her story.

Working from home for the most part of a decade has proved to be productive in a creative sense, but has also taught me things over the years about observing the difference between being alone and being lonely.

There is a depth that can be accessed from quiet, familiar, homeliness. But it’s important sometimes to reach out and be with people.

Offices are wonderful places for filling the water bottle or dunking the teabag and putting the world to rights. I use my local library for this as the librarians are kin to me. I also get the bonus of departing with a book under my arm - one that will speak to me and keep me company when I need it later.

This morning I chose to have a slow start with human company, and got chatting to our two local librarians about Britain’s split from the European Union.

One of the librarians – a volunteer – was from England. We talked about Government assistance, handouts, and the feeling of resentment among folk who’d worked continuously and fed their tax into the system while others seemed to collect it like an unquestionable birth right (or EU perk).

As a writer and lowly-paid journalist seeking flexibility over money, I’ve had tough times (cue the scarcity comparisons: ‘That’s nothing! We were so poor we boiled a leather belt to make soup’). But when irregular work flow felt like a pinch, I have always shied away from collecting a benefit.

I cannot say this isn’t a judgement on those who do. Apart from anything it would invite criticism because there will be a time that I’ve forgotten about. We receive working for family tax credits, which is a euphemism for a benefit, but one that I feel comfortable admitting to (because you work to get it, right?).

But I do not intend to imply that people who receive benefits are less than me. I am no hero. I probably wouldn’t be entitled to it anyway. My version of going without is laughable. I am probably in the top five percent of the world because I can still afford to buy a bag of organic coffee, and whenever I haven’t been able to prioritise this and outwardly lamented it, a friend has bought me a bag.

As a woman, it’s likely that when I worked for corporations, I wasn’t paid what I would have been had I been born a male. But apart from this, you could say my playing field has always been level.

My reluctance to even know if I could claim any benefit has more to do with how I feel when I’m in the building that you have to enter to find out. I would rather accept hand-me-downs from friends than risk believing I cannot make enough money from doing what I do.

​To admit that it’s tough to feed my family as a self-employed wordsmith might knock my confidence, and when you work at the edge of alone and lonely, confidence can make all the difference.

When I realised some time during my early 20s that my fate was very much in my own hands, I began writing lists.

The list provides order from a turbulent storm cloud of decisions. When choices seem overwhelming, when that dreaded sense of urgency looms – the one that nags about life direction and fulfilling your purpose before it’s too late – the list really comes into its own.  

These days I still rely on the list. Most mornings after a wasted hour of digital distraction, I draw one up. I like to mix them up a little, and yesterdays was a doozy.

It had ‘get purchase order for graphic designer’ above ‘write up plot’. I imagine the former task may not carry the same level of effort as the one below it, which was to attempt writing the complex romantic storyline to my first-ever novel. But there it was, a simple few words on a very practical To Do list. Just putting it out there!

Unfortunately, I didn’t get the satisfaction of crossing it off at the end of the day. With exactly five minutes to go before the start of a fitness class I wanted to attend, I was up to my armpits in the online copy of the Shropshire Parish Register (because another thing on my To Do list was ‘discover ancestry’).

In the past 15 years of being a parent, lists have become complicated, meaningless, unrealistic records of big dreams that never get crossed off. Somewhat like the past lives in that ancient register of births, deaths and marriages, those dreams have arrived, shone bright and gone.

Some of the names on the parish registry may have been ancestors of mine, but all of them I’m certain, had intriguing, painful and at other times joyous hours and years of living. It mattered not if they were a bastard child, a travelling woman, a pauper or esquire.

Scrolling through the lists of names, occupations and records of christenings, marriages and burials on that parish registry was sobering for the realisation that all of these people’s experiences - their very existence - had been reduced to a list.

On one page I noticed the date of the christening of an infant child, and the next day, the same child’s name followed by a ‘b’, indicating she had been buried. The same parents of this child had christened and buried another infant just 10 months prior.

Maybe for us too, the list is all that we’ll have left to tell our story when we’re gone?

I lament that my list no longer compares the pros and cons of ‘a new life in London’ vs ‘new life in Hong Kong’ , as it did when I was a single woman with an ambitious sense of boundless possibility.

​But the complexity of my current lists also hint at the richness of my life as a mother.

It can be overwhelming that I’m expected to factor the happiness of three offspring, a husband with lost and found dreams of his own and a co-dependant Jack Russell into my list. But when I think about it, the lists I wrote when I was 20-something also contained dreams that were never pursued, even though I had very few people to whom I needed to be accountable.
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Perhaps the function of the list is as a record of inward contemplation, and the value is in the process of imagining a future of wide open possibilities, as frightening as they may be.

My fellow writer friend Claire recently put me onto canva.com, a fun and useful tool for creating visual elements that bring your writing to life. Similar to picmonkey, which I find especially useful for quick photo editing functions, it has already come in handy for a marketing campaign I'm developing, and was filled with delicious photos, fonts and design layouts that helped bring my words to life.

These days we are so used to being marketed to that we expect to see good design incorporated into just about everything, so it's wonderful to come across easy to use, free tools for when the visual side of a writer's brain wants to be let loose on the mouse pad.

A big part of my writing work is helping clients with the big picture thinking required to best capture their end goals. It requires 'big' imagination and free thoughts that connect and group ideas, but also a narrowing down of the messages.

Perhaps what I love most about working early on in marketing campaigns is how similar they are to the thought process of writing poetry.

A short diversion here; I just had to reluctantly let go of the library's only copy of Natalie Goldberg's inspiring book Writing Down the Bones, freeing the writer within. I had received a courteous 'overdue' email along the lines of 'Did you forget?' but Emma our Librarian kindly watched on as I perched on the edge of a library chair, pausing only to glance annoyingly at a noisy I-Pad tapper, as I clung to the final few short chapters in order to finish the book. It was as though I was in a cave with a guru in some far flung corner of the globe that I thought I would never get the chance to return to in my lifetime. Of course I just need to go online and buy a copy...

But in this wonderful book Natalie talks about how lines in poetry are the lines that contain the most energy and vitality out of all the lines in your stories. If only one line in your notebook jumps out at you - that is the line to use in your poem.

Marketing campaigns are a bit like this. And although it may go unnoticed by most of the population, I dream one day of a poetic line on a billboard, beautifully designed, loaded with meaning, telling a story.