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Wednesday, 26 February 2014

My Writing Process (Blog Tour)




Back in January I was tagged by Shirley Golden to take part in this Blog Tour, but due to family matters and other commitments (and writing!), I kept postponing working on this post, until I finally found time to sit down and think about it.

My writing process… I never really reflected on the subject. How and why do I write what I do? How is it different from other authors’?



I’m not sure I can answer the latter question. I suppose most writers go through the same process: conceive an idea, think about it for days, weeks, develop it in my head, jot down quick notes about characters, time frame, location, main plot points, and finally write the story.

The way I go about writing a novel is a bit laborious and goes against what most writing manuals teach not to do, which is writing and editing at the same time. Sensibly, we are told to write the first draft in an uninterrupted flow and then go back to edit as many times as necessary to produce a better, tighter second, third, fourth draft.

Unfortunately I can’t do that. I work like Penelope on her proverbial Shroud.

I write, I read back, I delete, add, change; then write a bit more, read back, delete, add, change and so forth. Sometimes I read back from the start of the last chapter, sometimes from the start of the novel. This way, you ca imagine, writing the first draft takes ages. But the first draft it’s also the second, third or fourth, so when I finish and start the editing, this normally doesn’t take long as so much of the work has been done as I wrote.

I don’t claim this is the best way to write a book, but it works for me and it gives me a better sense of how the story is shaping up.

On occasions the flow is so good that I don’t want to stop it, so I write several pages without feeling the need to edit, but at some point I have this urge to take a break and look back at my work to polish it.

Aside perfecting the form, the main focus when I write is on the characters and so a lot of attention is given to make sure they are well crafted, believable and empathetic, with their own unique voices and quirks, distinct not only from each other, but from the narrative voice. i.e. me, the author.

In addition, I am a bit of a stickler for factual, geographical and historical accuracy. I spend a lot of time researching the tiniest of topics to make sure I get it right, whether it’s what song was number one in the charts in a particular week on a particular year, to how a street looks (or looked!) when  you take a stroll down it, or the weather details for a specific month in the past.

This type of work featured a lot in my novels Playing on Cotton Clouds – which spans three decades and is set in locations as different as The Midlands, Italy, London and New York – and A Summer of Love, where it was important to convey the beauty and romanticism of the Cornish coast over the course of twenty years.

I am currently doing a lot of research, as I plan to write a historical novel set during and in the immediate aftermath of World War I. The initial idea has already changed and expanded due to the fascinating information I have uncovered in my research. It’s an ongoing project at a very early stage, but about which I am very excited. Watch this space.


I now pass the baton on to Catriona King to continue in the Tour with her ideas on writing. Trained as a Doctor and Police Forensic Medical Examiner in London, Catriona worked closely with the Metropolitan Police on many occasions. In recent years, she has returned to live in Belfast. She has written since childhood: fiction, fact and news reporting. A Limited Justice was her first novel – and the 1st in Belfast’s Modern Thriller series – and follows DCI Marc Craig and his team through the streets of Belfast in the hunt for the murderer of three people.

You'll find more about her Belfast's Moder Thriller series on her website
http://www.catrionakingbooks.com/

Sunday, 5 January 2014

A Special Book





Mio, My Son (or Mio’s Kingdom depending on translations and issues) is a special book. 

Written by Astrid Lindgren, better known for Pippi Longstockings and Karlsson on the Roof, it was first published in Sweden in 1954 as Mio min Mio; a high fantasy book, contemporary to The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of The Rings

Most importantly, though, it was a present for me from my father and it was the first book I read on my own, aged eight.





My copy had a different title still – Mio Piccolo Mio as I read it in my native language, Italian, and that very same worn out copy can still be found on my bookshelf.

My worn out Italian copy

The story tells the adventures of Karl Anders Nillsson, an orphan who lives with his foster parents, Aunt Hulda and Uncle Olaf. Hulda and Olaf care little about Karl, find him noisy, messy and annoying, and Karl envies his friend Ben, whose dad builds plane models with him and draws marks on the kitchen door to see how much Ben has grown.
     
Sir Kato's dark castle








One day, Karl happens to find a genie and is suddenly whisked away to a new world, Farawayland. Here he discovers that his real name is Mio and he’s not an orphan, but the son of the King. Karl – or Mio -  now has a real father, new friends and everything his heart desires, but his newly found happiness is under threat.
 
The Kingdom lies in the shadow of the mysterious and evil Sir Kato, and Mio is the only one that can defeat him. With his companion Pompoo and his beautiful white horse Miramis, Mio leaves on a dangerous quest to destroy Kato…






Mio and Miramis


 Mio’s adventures had me hooked from page one and the many characters, friends and foes he encounters in his adventures filled and excited my imagination. I still remember the sense of trepidation I felt at bedtime, sitting under the covers, as I turned the pages – with their charming black and white illustrations – dreading the moment when my mum would appear to announce it was lights out.




Mio and Pompoo surrounded by Sir Kato's men


Reading on my own was a new experience. Up to that point, books had been a shared occasion; characters spoke with my mother’s voice, stories were enriched with her observations and helped along with her answers to my questions. Now there was no one but me and the world into which I had just stepped. I could give a voice to each character, find my own answers through descriptions, dialogue, narrative, immerse myself in the story completely, escape to Farawayland and feel the joy, sadness and fear (Sir Kato terrified me!) that Mio felt. It was a new and exciting way of living a book.

Quite a few more years and books later, I have discovered many other worlds and seen life from new perspectives; I have been moved and amused, entertained and provoked.

The magic of books had been opened for me.
 


 It was Mio and his friends who unlocked it and for that they will always be special.  

The children of Farawayland

Where did it all start for you?

 Original illustrations by Ilon Wikland 
Original Italian issue cover design by Maria Enrica Agostinelli
first published by Vallecchi

Mio, My Son is published in the UK by OUP Oxford

The opening of the first chapter
 

Tuesday, 31 December 2013

HAPPY NEW YEAR, 1984




  One hour to midnight.
  The clock seemed to be turning slowly, time stretched into a different rhythm, were minutes had turned into hours.
  How much longer would he have to endure this? - Seth thought.
  He didn’t belong here, to this party, to this elegant big house filled with rich kids from the West side of town, all done up in designer clothes and permed hair, all looking as if they had just walked off the set of Dynasty.
  And there was him, in his second hand clothes inherited from an older cousin with no sense of style, big Christmas jumper and faded jeans, his grey eyes hidden behind a curtain of straight dark hair.
  Perhaps he should have accepted Aidan’s invitation after all, even if he had little in common with his friend’s work colleagues. He had seemed more logical mixing with fellow college students. But now he felt just as ill at ease. Why had he come?
  Of course he knew perfectly well why. The reason for his presence was standing a few paces from him, talking with friends and laughing, looking more beautiful than ever, a blue and golden vision of seventeen year old perfection.
  What had made him think tonight would be different? Had he really imagined that Tara would finally look his way? The shy, awkward boy from the East side's council estate who had fancied her in silence since Senior School? What kind of New Years Eve’s miracle had he hoped would happen?
  He should disappear before people started kissing and singing drunken traditional songs, go home and hide in his room, cry and maybe write another silly story about wasted love. Start the new year as the last.
  Seth left the crowded living-room and moved to the hall, where he managed to dig out his coat from under the heap that had been dropped on the old oak settle by the door. There wasn’t really any point in saying goodbye to the others, especially the host. He couldn’t say he liked James Douglas-Smith all that much, the spoilt rich brat. And he was sure the feeling was mutual. So he might as well sneak out the door before anyone realised he had gone.
  “Are you leaving?” A familiar voice put a stop to his plan for a quiet exit and he glanced at Livy standing in the living-room doorframe. The way she was staring at him from behind her glasses unsettled him. Did she know he was so desperately and hopelessly in love with her older sister? She always seemed to see right through him.
  “Yeah,” he muttered. “I don’t know if I want to be around for Auld Lang Syne. It’s depressing.”
  Again Livy scrutinized him, penetrating the invisible wall he put up between himself and the world. There was no hiding and he felt blood rising to his face as if she had just caught him naked.
  “Are you going for a walk, then?” She asked.
  Seth shrugged. “I’ll probably stop at the bridge and watch the fireworks over the river. Got to be better than here.”
  “Sounds like a plan.” Livy smiled, looking suddenly younger than her fifteen years. “I’ll come with you.”
  Seth opened his mouth to protest, but Livy had already extricated her coat and scarf from under all others, getting ready to follow him, and he found himself secretly welcoming her company.
  “Come on, then.” He sighed, and the two of them slipped outside into the cold night.

***

  “I knew I’d find you here.” Aidan had appeared out of nowhere and now stood beside them, as Seth and Livy leaned on the bridge rail.
  Seth smirked. “Of course you did. I told you I probably would come.”
  “Hi, Aidan.” Livy greeted him, as if to make sure her presence was acknowledged. She always looked a little intimidated by Aidan. Perhaps it was his boisterous manners, or his slightly dangerous edge, or maybe his good looks that turned even the most confident girls into a giggly, coy mess.
  “Hi, kiddo.” Aidan smiled at Livy. “Did you have enough of the posh do as well?”
  “Kind of. What about you? I thought you’d be with your girlfriend…”
  “Yeah, where’s Alison?” Seth joined in.
  Aidan shrugged. “She’s not my girlfriend. We just have fun together.”
  “Not having fun tonight?”
  “Nah. I thought I’d come here to see if you were around.”
  Seth laughed. “Sounds like you had a real crappy night.”
  Livy checked her watch. “It’s ten minutes to nineteen-eighty-four. Any wish, resolution for the new year?”
  “Mmmmh…” Aidan assumed a pensive expression. “Winning the Pools would be nice. Have a few quid to help my mum and sisters and buy myself a motor.”
  “Sounds good. What about you Seth?”
  Seth kept his eyes on the waters below. What could he wish for? Sum up the courage to jump in? Or be brave enough to make it through another year of disappointments and heartaches? Grow up and stop being such a prized fool?
  Aidan’s hand landed firmly on his shoulder. “How about finally getting laid, this year, mate?”
  Seth smiled. “Yeah… something like that.”
  “And you, Liv?”
  “I wish we can be here again, next year. Every year. For the next thirty New Year’s Eves.”
  Seth shuddered. “What? Here, on the bridge? In this miserable town for the next thirty years? Perish the thought.”
  “No, no… I don’t mean it like that.” Livy shook her head. “But I’d like it if we could get back together. If our friendship could continue through the years.”
  “I see. I suppose that would be nice.”
  “Where do you think we will be in thirty years time? On the Eve of 2014?”
  “Seth will be a successful best selling sci-fi author.” Again Aidan patted Seth’s back. “He’ll be loaded and take us all to a swanky party.”
  “Ha. I’ll be teaching English to Secondary School kids, if I’m lucky.” He placed his hand on Livy’s hair. “Livy here will be the successful one. Famous artist exhibiting all over the world.”
  “I hope so.” Livy smiled. “And you, Aidan?”
  “I’ll almost certainly be here, still working in a supermarket, still going nowhere, watching you kids making money and the news. I’ll earn a few quid selling stories of your seedy past to Hello! or something.”
  They all laughed just as the peace of the night was shattered by loud bangs and the sky lit with colourful fireworks.
  “Well, it’s nineteen-eighty-four, folks!” Aidan stood between them wrapping his arms around Seth’s and Livy’s shoulders. “Should we kiss and sing Auld Lang Syne?”
  Warmth spread inside Seth, as they huddled together and stood at the edge of life, holding on to their hopes and dreams for the future. Perhaps the new year wouldn’t be so bad, he reflected; he leaned to his right and placed his lips on Aidan’s cheek. “Here’s your kiss, mate. But I’m not going to sing.”
  “Too bad.” Aidan chuckled.
  To the other side of him, Livy grinned. “Happy New Years, guys.” 

***
  
HAPPY 2014!

***

You can follow the story of Seth, Livy and Aidan in Playing on Cotton Clouds


 

Wednesday, 18 December 2013

Blitzing to Christmas

Books make for perfect stocking fillers


And so it has arrived. The day when you realise it's only one week to Christmas.

Normally I would be panicking. Few more presents to buy, Christmas cards to send, decorations to put up, turkey to order... ARGH!

But, ha! I'm surprisingly organised, this year. A week to go and I'm ready. Shopping finished, cards sent, tree up, I've even wrapped all the presents already.

Pats on the back for moi!





So today I can relax and go on my scheduled Blitz Book Tour for Playing On Cotton Clouds. I will be stopping on various blogs with info about the book and an excerpt for you to sample, if you'd like to join me. Just grab a hot beverage, sit back and put your feet up. There's still plenty of time before Christmas!


 List of participating blogs on the Blitz Book Tour:


Hosted by  Buy The Book Tours


Monday, 2 December 2013

The Sound of 2013 ~ Fifteen songs



Another year of music is about to end with memories of great concerts and more songs to add to the soundtrack of our lives, some linked to happy times and some to a few tears.

We all have our favourites, I'm sure, and here are fifteen of mine, among the many that filled my player and kept me company while writing in 2013.

The Stone Roses perform in Finsbury Park, London ~ 8th June 2013


15. Secret Colours, BLACKBIRD (ONLY ONE)
Opening track of the American alternative band’s psychedelic album “Peach", it has an amazing instrumental outro.



14. Palma Violets, STEP UP FOR THE COOL CATS
The London based band released their debut album “180” at the start of the year, displaying great energy and echoes of The Clash, The Who and The Libertines.

 


13. Veronica Falls, MY HEART BEATS
Originally released as a single last year, it was included in the album “Waiting for Something to Happen”, which came out in early 2013, so it makes the list. Fresh and uplifting.



12. Gabrielle Aplin, PANIC CORD
A gentle, lovely ballad about the fear of commitment and a hint of regret for possibly having pulled out of a relationship to soon. Simple, sweet and heartfelt.



11. Avicii, WAKE ME UP
A chart topper, this song dominated the radio waves all summer with its mix of country/folk and dance. Just puts me in a good mood every time.



10. Merchandise, ANXIETY’S DOOR
A Smiths-esque song for a very promising new band.



9. Johnny Marr, NEW TOWN VELOCITY
2013 has been a successful year for Johnny Marr, whom I had the fortune to catch live twice in June. This is my favourite song from his album “The Messanger”.



8. The Arctic Monkeys, No 1 PARTY ANTHEM
The new Arctic Monkeys' album, “AM” wasn’t quite as good as 2011’s “Suck It and See”, in my opinion, but it includes some excellent songs, of which this one is the pinnacle.




7. I Am Kloot, THESE DAYS ARE MINE
Difficult to choose just one song from I Am Kloot's beautiful album “Let It All In”, but this is definitely one of the highlights.



6. Jake Bugg, ME AND YOU
Jake was the sensation of 2012, with his self titled debut album. His follow up, “Shangri La”, is more of a mixed bag, but he still delivers aplenty when playing to his strength, the acoustic ballad.



5. Primal Scream, IT’S ALRIGHT, IT’S OKAY
Despite the departure of bass player Mani, who in 2011 rejoined the reformed Stone Roses, the Scream were back in great form last May, with their new album “More Light”, possibly their best work since XTRMNTR. Plenty of great tracks. This is the poppiest moment, which lifted me up all summer, a great sing along remindful of “Movin’ on Up”.



4. Jagwar Ma, THE MAN I NEED
From the psychedelic/dance Australian duo’s album “Howlin’”, this can only be described as sunshine in a record.



3. Masters in France, FLEXIN
Nothing French about this Welsh band, whose track “Playin’ with My Friends” has been made famous by the quirky IKEA advert. “Playing with My Friends” was released towards the end of 2012, so, though I’m still obsessed with it, it can’t make this list, but “Flexin” came out earlier this year and it’s just as good. Apparently they have been recording their debut album, which, if this is anything to go by, promises to be rather good.



2. The Temples, KEEP IN THE DARK
I’m really looking forward to the debut album from this new British band – scheduled for February 2014 – whose music is drenched in 60s psychedelia with a nod to glam rock (bit of T-Rex going on here). Currently touring with Primal Scream.



1. Arthur Beatrice, CARTER
Palm of Song of the Year 2013 from me goes to this stunning track by British band Arthur Beatrice. Album also scheduled for February 2014 and I’m very much looking forward to it.



Wednesday, 13 November 2013

THE SHADOW - Part Two




I’m standing by the church.
The stony, nineteenth century building breaks the afternoon November sun and casts its familiar shadow over the small, empty car park, the low wall bordering it, the pavement on the other side and me.
I’ve grown in this shadow.
It used to be familiar, made of something beautiful, of angels, miracles and sky, until the beauty was broken into pieces and encased in books and rules, the shadow turned into a heavy mantel of shame.
Now angels are only made of stone, miracles just fairy-tales and the sky distant.
Our father, who art in heaven…forgive us our trespasses…
My hands search the pockets of my jeans, fingering the questions I always carry with me. I close my fist and trap one inside: who am I?
There’s a different answer, a different me for everyone: my friends, my sister, my baby brother, my mum, my dad, the priest, the teachers, the people of this small town.
Yet, to everyone I’m Samuel Daly, seventeen year old, the quiet, thoughtful eldest son of the pharmacist, Patrick Daly, who writes letters to the Bishop about the corruption and decay at the heart of respectability, forced as he is to stand side by side with divorcees and single mothers, in his cast-iron righteousness, while his daughter lines up for communion before running off to make love to her boyfriend, his twelve year old son serves on the altar minutes after stealing money from a smaller boy and his firstborn is going straight to Hell, wrapped up in filthy dreams and fantasies.
My hand is still holding on to the question.
Who am I?
I can’t bring myself to dig it out. It seems pointless, when the answers are already there, in the shadow.
A freak. A joke. A sinner. A queer. A poof. A faggot.
I know I am. I know that’s what they would call me. Some would laugh, some would hate. And perhaps some would love me, a thought that still scares me and warms me up inside at the same time.
I wish I could get out of this shadow and stop asking myself questions. I have been asking them for too long and for too long ignored the answers.
But I know who I am, now.
 ***
The wind blows over the dead leaves at our feet.
We kicked them as we walked along the path in the park, half an hour ago and for eight autumns before then.
We go back a long way, Alan and I. We walked together many days and through many streets, outside school, in the playground, by the canal, along the back alleys of our estate.
We walked together today, from the church where we met to the public park a few yards away, my slim shadow next to his, better proportioned. We walked almost in silence, as he finished his cigarette and I jangled lose change in my pocket and gathered thoughts in my head.
Today is the day I am going to tell him.
I don’t know why I decided it would be. I hadn’t set out to have this conversation, when I left home, but the shadow is suffocating me and I need to find an escape, somehow.
Alan… my best friend and the object of my fantasies and desire.
I stare at his handsome profile, his straight nose and his Mediterranean complexion, his full lips, dark eyes and short black curls, and I hold my breath.
We walked here, to this bench, and here I broke my silence, stepped out of the shadow in just three words: I’m gay.
I can let go of my questions, now, open my fist and let them all crawl away. It’s out, it’s real, it’s true. I’m gay. I’m me. It even seems beautiful and I wonder what I was so afraid of. I can be me and I can love him my way, though he’ll never know.
Alan’s profile turns to face me, his ink eyes looking at me from under a frown.
‘You’re confused, right?’
‘No, I’m not.’
I’ve never been less confused in my life.
Alan leans back on the bench, hands sunk into his expensive designer coat.
‘Wow… just… wow.’ He shakes his head. ‘Maybe it’s just a phase, though… I mean… they happen, gay phases…’
‘It’s not a phase.’
‘Can’t you… like… change your mind? You know… maybe if you shagged some hot girl…’
‘It’s not something I can change. It’s not something I want to change.’
‘You want to be a queer?’ He sounds affronted by the idea, his tone getting aggressive. ‘You want it up your arse?’
The shadow is chasing me and I want him to pull me away from the fear it’s trying to tie me with. I want him to love me his way. More than anything, I want him to understand that.
Please, understand.
I lift my hand.
‘Just let me…’ Let me be me, I want to say, but my hand moves to his face, my fingers touch his smooth skin and my thumb strokes his lips.
He jumps up.
Let you what?’ His breaths are short and rapid. ‘You tell me you’re a queer and then you make a pass at me?’ His eyes dig into me as if he is seeing me for the first time. ‘Did you think…Did you imagine we could…Fucking Hell.’
I’m shaking now and the shadow is upon me once more.
‘It’s not like that.’ I try to free myself. ‘It’s…’
‘I don’t want to know what it is like. You’re…’
I can fill in his pause for him.
Queer. Pervert. Disgusting.
Somehow his voice becomes confused with my father’s in my head.
I wish I hadn’t told him. I wish I had remained in the shadow, hidden away.
‘I’m what?’
He doesn’t answer. He’s already walking away, his shadow growing longer and distant in the setting sun.

Continues in Part Three

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

THE SHADOW - Part One




The gravel is cool and wet against my face, its mouldy, mossy smell fills my nostrils and passes into my mouth. I can almost taste it, mixed with the metallic, sweet flavour of blood.
My eyes slowly bring the ground into focus. A puddle lies a few paces from me, beyond my fingers. I try to lift them, but they are glued to the stony path, throbbing with pain.
It is a relief to feel pain still. The rest of my body is now numb, detached from my senses as if it doesn’t belong to me any more. I am aware of the rain washing over me, of the voices echoing around, confused into one blurred, buzzing noise.
Except for one.
That one voice soars above the others and rains back down on me like a shower of rocks cast to cleanse my shame and sin.
‘Bloody perv!’ The harsh, disgusted tone hits me, more painful than the strike at my kidneys, more degrading than the warm spit dropping on my cheek. ‘I hope never to see your face again.’
My jaw jolts and cracks under the blow of one last kick. A rush of heat engulfs my brain and I watch the red tinted rain trickling away from me. The world becomes fuzzy and I slowly plunge into silence and darkness.
 ***
 Sunday afternoon always smells of cabbage.
Or broccoli. Or whatever other vegetables mum decides to boil for lunch. She never chooses gentle greens, like courgettes or runner beans, she always goes for the boldest, most arrogant plants, that impose their presence long after they have left, overpowering pretty much any other odour in the house.
The auditory sense, however, is subjected to a much more fragmented assault.
In one corner, mum is watching the Eastenders Omnibus while at the same time mending a pair of trousers, the living-room filled with cockney accents and raspy voices.
Sitting by her side on the sofa, same slight figure and dark, wavy hair, her fifteen year old legs wrapped in a pair of black skinny jeans, Lauryn keeps a distracted eye on the soap and concentrates on replying to texts, generating a repetitive tune as she presses the keys of her mobile phone, strangely in rhythm with the drumming noise coming from Shane’s room, upstairs.
It is all quite soothing, oddly enough, like a distant, familiar rhyme lulling my thoughts.
Here I am, perched on the padded bench by the bay window, an island of silence in the sea of cacophony washing at my shore, my long limbs dressed in jeans and plaid shirt, my eyes hidden under the long hair framing my face.
I am present and oblivious at the same time, observant of my surroundings, while detached, as I doodle at the margins of my notes, my English lesson for college, tomorrow.
My drawings are staring back at me and I realise I have almost subconsciously filled the notes with eyes, wide open, terrified. Why, I’m not sure, I just feel the need to add tears and blood vessels to them.
‘Listen to this.’
The decisive, baritone voice breaks through the room’s perfectly orchestrated commotion, like a bugle suddenly calling everyone to attention. Mum and Lauryn drop mobile and needle and I stop tormenting the eyes on the page, as we all gaze back at my father.
He sits straight and rigid at the desk in the opposite corner, his back to the work space, facing us, all arranged in a carefully conceived composition: him to my left, mum and Lauryn to my right and me, not siding with anyone.
The sun from the window reflects on the thin piece of paper he is holding in his hand, allowing a glimpse of his neat handwriting on the other side.
‘I finished the letter to the Bishop,’ he announces.
‘Already, dear?’ Mum reprises her sewing while Lauryn takes advantage of the temporary distraction to change channel.
‘Just tell me what you think.’ Dad clears his throat and lifts his balding head a little higher. ‘Your Excellency, as you might be aware I have written to you in the past highlighting problems and malpractices taking place at our Parish…’
‘An excellent start dear,’ Mum buts in.
‘… malpractices taking place at our Parish.’ Dad frowns and recovers his thread. I am unfortunately forced to write to you again…
I have to listen. Unlike other noises, I can’t escape my father’s voice. It demands to be heard, it grabs my thoughts and doesn’t let go.
Next to the suffering eyes, I now draw a mouth, open and big. I wonder if this is my father’s mouth - slowly and relentlessly listing Father Anthony’s many failures as a shepherd of our flock, his slap dash approach to church duties, his laid back attitude to Communion distribution, Confession, sin – or if it is in fact someone’s screaming to break free. Perhaps it is my mouth.
The reading is finally over. My father is waiting for approval. He never asks for advice. He already knows what’s right and what’s wrong.
‘Very good, dear.’ Mum smiles serenely, as she has done for nineteen years.
I close my ring-binder and stand up, suddenly visible again.
‘Are you done with your studying, Sam?’ Mum asks.
I nod.
‘I’m going for a walk.’
Music, drumming, ring-tones… I’m invisible once more and I leave the room and the house barely noticed.

Continues in Part Two