more beautiful for having been broken


Kintsukuroi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold paste, ‘to repair with gold’  has also been described as ‘more beautiful for having been broken’, or the beauty of being broken. It’s been part of this year’s blog experience for me as rogue and queen (from the Eartha Kitt song All By Myself, also about becoming beautiful through painfulexperience.) The proof of its fragility and its resilience is what makes it beautiful.  I even like the fact that the gold paste used is potentially poisonous – repair itself is dangerous.

My journey this year has been through cancer, strokes, heart surgery and loss of lovers and loved ones. The picture above is of something I chose not to repair, as it reminds me of my best friend Mary Harlot, who I wrote about in another blog entry Betty Bones And Mystery Of The Phantom Clipper Knicker. Mary was my oldest, oldest, oldest,  schoolfriend and I bought him the candle holder  as a birthday present to keep on a lovely glass table in his beautiful scarlet papered front room in his home in South Wimbledon home (once used as a setting for a hovel in an episode of The Bill which caused me no end of amusement.) At some point, in drunken revels, he broke one of the glass candle holders. He died suddenly and tragically over ten years ago and I read a poem , shaking like a leaf, at his funeral. When his parents cleared out his flat, they offered me the opportunity to take something away as a momento and I chose the candle-holder. When my Mum saw it, her immediate reponse was ‘you can get that fixed.’ I told her I didn’t want to fix it. Dad understood, but she didn’t – she wanted to repair it, as she always wantes to make things better. I keep it broken, because I like fragile things, and resilience. Not quite kintsukuroi, as it’s not mended with gold, but certainly more beautiful for having been broken.

This year, I’ve written two novels Second Moon and Endlings (which, to be honest, I should be working on finishing now),  and a collection of short stories A Happy Finish. Both novels have touched on my experiences of being broken, or beautful fragility and resilience. Earlier this year, I had a very polite thank you/but no thank you rejection for an earlier romance novel The Leading Man I had published a while ago which I was looking to re-publish. It was also written after a period of illness and brokenness.  Fortunately, as a writer, I’ve had very few rejection letters, but know it is part of most authors’ experience, and we have to believe in the beauty or resilience of our writing to carry on. I encourage myself, and other authors, to treat rejection with politeness and gratitude – not only might you need the contacts again, but someone has taken the time to read your work and respond, and you can learn something valuable both from their criticism and the experience.

We’re all broken. We’re all beautiful. I remind my counselling clients of The Power Of Gratitude – reflecting on the things we can be grateful for, however difficult or painful the experience might be. Often, they will choose to create Gratitude Lists – reflections on what is positive in their lives, as an antidote to the Negative Chatter we often experience. Gratitude often allows us to accept, to look beyond and through the pain itself, and move on.

I hope your experiences of being broken reveal your beauty in 2014.

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Betty Bones And The Mystery Of The Phantom Clipper Nicker

even at  an early age Betty Bones knew she Wanted To Be Evil...

Betty Bones harboured many secrets…

Yesterday, I met up with an old school friend. We caught up on 20 years worth of love, loss,  career, family  and friends. He was warm, charming, friendly, happy and looking very well. I’ve missed him, and I longed for my old school days and what seemed simpler times. School reunions can be a bit of a minefield – memories are tricky magicians, and people change through circumstances, relationships, realisations, life’s little intricacies. Thankfully,  neither of was too different from the couple of classmates from a Catholic boarding school we both knew 20+ years ago.  We were able to step back.

My nickname at school was Betty Bones, given to me by my best friend Mary Harlot. We were camp and bitchy and dramatic, protective and ‘sisterly’. Mary died very suddeny  in 1999 and I’ve missed him ever since. I was explaining Laurie Anderson‘s description of grief or loss as a ‘library being burnt down’  one of the truest descriptions I know – a whole load of memories, connections, networks and relationships become ashes,suddenly gone. And for a couple of hours, in the company of an old friend, I was Betty Bones again, and Mary was alive with us  too.

I had a great time at school,  full of scandal and gossip – Mary and I used to write a weekly ‘Scandal Top Ten’ of rumours, gossip and half true events.The truth hurts but is always respected  he would say. Recently,  another  friend and school colleague, Simon Mason, has written a compelling and harrowing, brutal account of abuse and subsequent drug addiction, Too Far, Too High, Too Soon. He sent me  a picture of us both in a school play. where I was surprisingly butch as Huckleberry Finn.  My first line was Hello yourself, and see how you like it.  School  wasn’t as happy and sparkly, though,   for other people, and I’ve since heard several stories of abuse and unhappiness while I stomped, minced and breezed my way through.

I’d moved there after a traumatic and difficult first year in the local comprehensive, inhabited by bullies and a cloud of despondency. I started off a bright, creative student and ended up being a recalcitrant, disillusioned and unhappy child forcing my parents to move me. It’s not that it was necessarily a bad school, but it  was too big for me, and I got lost and frightened in its inability to see me. Although I was  never bullied (‘you would have eviscerated them’, my friend told me over tea), it was painful watching the effects on others.

In my first term at New School, a History teacher suggested we write a creative story after his history lesson. I seized the chance, he gave me an impossible mark of  10+ and read  my story out to the year. I was suddenly a writer, a weaver of tales, and haven’t stopped writing since. Unwittingly, ‘Humble John’ is  probably responsible for my first historical queerotica novels Hot On The Trail and Legion Of Lust, where I reimagiined history from a queer perspective. Most of what I experienced at school got reimagined by Betty Bones and Mary Harlot. So much so that I’m never quite sure what was real and what wasn’t. Truly,there was murder, and drunken nuns, and beatings, and imposter clergy who were surreptitiously ghosted away one night… some of which I might write about in later blogs (spoilers!)

One year, there were a spate of incidents in our library , ruled at that time by Mary Harlot and Betty Bones under the guise of Head Librarians, deciding which pupils would or wouldn’t be ‘allowed’ to take out books. It was an old library in a converted part of a beautiful chapel, with a simple shelving system involving boards held up by metal clips inserted into a metal frame. Like meccano.  Someone discovered that you could remove the clips and prop the shelf above up with a larger book. Unfortunately, if the book was taken away, the whole shelf of books fell down on the unsuspecting reader as onlookers stood by laughing. Thus was born The Phantom Clipper Nicker, fearsomely striking on many, many occasions. Our staff librarian, nicknamed Old Mother Diptheria for no other reason than she was elderly, noticed a reference book in the wrong place and attermpted to remove it, only for a shelf full of books to topple on to her. Help Me, she begged ,from under dusty tomes,  her weak, wizened  old hand was attempting to hold up. Unsuspecting new boys were directed by The Phantom and his/her accomplices to ominous looking tomes, unwaware of the fate that was due to befall them. Bodies In The Library. Rather appropriately, I last saw the library used for a location for the cosy clerical murder mystery series Father Brown   – but there was no sign of The Phantom Clipper Nicker.

When I left my friend, after a couple of hours of tea and gossip, I found myself crying for no apparent reason.  I do that these days. Perhaps it was another ‘Brokeback Moment’, perhaps it was just the events of the last three months catching up with me, perhaps it was 20 years of life being crammed into a couple of hours of tea and gossip.  Or perhaps The Phantom Clipper Nicker had struck once more ….