{Normally the audio version sits behind a paywall, but this week I’m making it free as it’s Thanksgiving. }
I'm not good with numbers. They mess with my head. Like time.
Oh I get it. Time is measured by seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, but that doesn't mean I understand it.
A year has passed since I started writing Notes From The Valley. An actual year! What started as one innocent wee blog somehow grew into 52 and now has become 1 whole book. And this blog, sitting at number 53, is essay 1 of impending book 2.
I've never written a book before - although I sort of have. I've written a ton of stuff over the years because I write all the time and I was born when dinosaurs roamed the earth and am old as time itself ( just ask my kids). But usually whatever I write has to travel through the hands and opinions of a mass of agents, managers, producers, editors, script editors… opinions. Basically, I have to fit it for the people who have commissioned it.
But this wee book is farm to table. It grew out of nothing - like a literary weed maybe. It belongs to me.
And yes, it is a mental idea to just make a book, but the world currently feels full of completely mental things over which I feel entirely powerless. So I figured I'd remind myself that I do still have some say in the order of my existence by doing one wee mental thing of my own.
Anyway, liberation is all very good and all that, but just so you know, making the decision to publish a book, is a whole lot easier than actually doing it. As with all new things, there’s a shit ton of stuff to learn. Fortunately I have bee-keeping, human brain box, Mark Tweddle to assist with all things technical, and anything with a number in it.
Because, like I say, I'm not good with numbers. And I struggle with time.
Fergus turned 21 this month and I can't get my head round it. My baby boy, who once depended on me for everything, is now a full-grown man.
For his birthday he flew to Georgia to hang with friends. It was the first birthday he hasn’t spent with us. I loved that he was hanging out with friends because what else do you want for your kids but friendship and happiness? Yet still…
On his actual birthday I couldn't settle -like I'd left the cooker on. And I had one of those days when everything was messing with me: My computer was being flaky, my phone kept ringing spam calls. I’d make myself tea and forget about it, and then pick it up when it was cold and make another only for that to get cold too. So when Mark presented me with a little bundle of admin tasks I had to get done for the book to be released on Amazon, I reacted like he’d just asked me to donate a kidney while unicycling over a fire pit.
“Anything wrong?” Mark asked, cautiously.
“No. Why are you asking? I’m perfectly fine. Completely. Fine.”
“Want a cup of tea?” he asked.
“No. I’ve already made three and they all went cold.”
Mark smiled. And said nothing. 5 minutes later, he called me into the kitchen to get a cup of tea he’d made for me anyway.
I sat at the table and heaved a great adolescent sigh before sipping some tea. ( It really does taste good when still hot).
Finally I said, “I feel I should be doing something for Ferg’s birthday.”
Mark feigned surprise. “Oh ok. What do you want to do?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know what I should do. He’s 3000 miles away with his friends, and I’ve messaged him twice already and it's not even lunchtime and I don’t want to be calling him all day with my old lady neediness.”
Mark, wisely, said nothing.
“He says he's having a lovely time. And that's good. But it’s his actual 21st! That's an important birthday. We should be marking the day. Not hanging about doing bloody book admin.”
“So what do you want to do?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know.” I snapped, “That’s the actual point.”
Mark nodded and noticing the time on the big clock by the kitchen, said, “Want me to go get Pollo Loco for lunch?”
“Not for me.” I said. “I'm not hungry”
Mark, who is never not hungry at lunchtime, concluded matters were really serious and a solution had to be found. He sat down opposite me.
“Alright. How about we organize a surprise party for him coming home?”
I looked at him like he'd lost his mind. “For Fergus? He’d hate that. He hates parties. Anyway, we’re doing a small birthday dinner when he gets back.”
“So is that not good enough?”
“Uhm. No. Because he is 21. We need to give him something.”
Mark looked at me like I'd lost my mind. “We did give him something. We gave him a card and money because that’s what he wanted.”
“But he is actually 21. Today.” I insisted “Don’t you see?”
Mark smiled.
“Ok. How about we go out and get him a watch? A big fat watch. We could get ‘Happy 21st birthday, Fergus’ engraved on the back, and then we could watch him open it and wonder what the Hell he should be doing with it. ”
I smiled at the thought. Ferg would have no idea why he would need a watch. It would be less than 24 hours before he squirreled it away in a drawer.
“Or a suit.” Mark continued. “A nice three-piece suit that he could wear to interviews.”
I started to laugh. As handsome as he is, Fergus is a guy whose body looks surprised on the odd occasion it is encased in a suit.
“Or maybe,” Mark added, “We could get him a fancy bottle of whisky. One for his man cave in the future, when he invites guys from work round to share a drink and a cigar and talk about women.”
I laughed so much, I snorted tea through my nostrils
Fergus has tried beer a couple of times and wasn’t impressed. He might touch an occasional vodka with friends, but even then it’s a push. He likes his water neat.
“Jeez. That’s what people really did get as gifts when we were turning 21.” I said.
Mark laughed. “Totally!”
“Where did it all go to?” I smiled. “The past really is another country.”
Mark nodded, considering.
Probably because I was tired. And probably because we've never published a book before. And probably because numbers annoy me and I feel like time has the ability to slip past me when I'm not looking. And because even beautiful, beautiful, brilliant things can be hard to accept when they're new. But I found myself crying. In fact, I found myself ugly crying whilst simultaneously stating “I'm happy. Honestly. Really I am.”
Mark - looking a bit on the teary side himself - reached for my hand across the table.
“It's ok to not know how to feel.” He said. “It's weird but it's just a day. Just a number. And you don't like numbers.”
“True,” I replied, “I completely don't.”
Mark smiled. “And you know what? Neither does Ferg.”
I wiped my face, drank some tea ( which by the way was at an almost perfect temperature), and having agreed that I probably was hungry, Mark went off to pick up a Pollo Loco for lunch.
While he was gone, I did some work on the book and had a word with myself.
My wee book is written my way because it is part of me. It doesn't have to travel through editors, producers, directors, managers and the opinions of all and sundry. And if that can be true for a book, surely the same can be true for Fergus’s birthday.
It is hard to not live up to other peoples’ expectations - especially if those people are completely fictional and only exist in the realms of my head. It's hard to meet the standards of a time that never actually existed apart from in some figment of my imagination. Real-life events are not one-size-fits-all according to some standard decided by some lady of decorum or some advertising giant. They belong to the now. To the moment, not to the occasion. To the person not to the number.
With my kids I am all “ Honor the past but don’t let it swallow you. Take chances. Open your mind. Share yourself. Of course I'll miss you on your birthday but you should go to Georgia, because I want you to have the very best time, and we'll celebrate when you get back.”
Yet, with myself, I am a giant hypocrite operating under some internal quality control manual proffering advice on standards circa 1954.
The rest of the day was lovely. I got some work done, had some dinner, watched some telly and went to bed grateful for a world with my giant son in it, and I hatched a plan for Fergus’s birthday.
Back in the old country, the one staple on every buffet table for every party for every occasion is sausage rolls: Sausage meat wrapped in puff pastry, baked until golden brown. You'll find them at weddings funerals, birthdays, and every kind of celebration in between.
Because they're a very British thing and we moved to America when Ferg was 6, he only really discovered their deliciousness a few years ago. And he absolutely loves them. They're the first thing he gets when he arrives in the UK and the last thing he stuffs in his mouth before getting on the plane to come back.
So, on the day of his return, while Mark picked him up from the airport, I baked him a ‘birthday surprise’
He arrived back from his jaunt, exhausted, happy from his trip, and glad to be home. With a bit of a ‘tah dah,’ I pulled the greaseproof paper off the ‘surprise’ to reveal the number 21 baked out of sausage rolls. Ferg laughed out loud when he saw it.
Tucking in pretty much immediately he said with a surprise like that he definitely wouldn't forget turning 21. And I cuddled my big man child, and told him I knew I wouldn't either.
Time might always be tricky. More and more I feel like no sooner have I noticed something than it's gone. But with numbers I've been thinking. Maybe the best way to deal with them is in sausage form.
Till next week xo
Notes from the Valley Book links:
I’m sure there should be one link that works everywhere… ( I told you it’s complicated) However until I find it, you can either search for the book’s ID code (“B0CMF5LS9M”) or use this link for the US, this one for the UK, this one for Canada, and this one for Australia. The Kindle eBook version is available for pre-order now and will be released on Monday, Nov 20th. The paperback will also be available this week, and the hardback and audiobooks will be following very soon after.
Well hello there, NFTV peeps.
Now normally I have a wee frank chat behind this paywall, but I thought as an extra special treat, and because the blog was so frickin long that..
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Notes From The Valley to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.