Hello, everyone! I'm getting very excited, because I'm about to spend a concentrated period of time writing my new novel! It's a sort of sequel to my novel The Goddess Workshop. I say "sort of sequel", because it has a big twist to it, but it's a sequel in that I'll be continuing to write about the fortunes of some of my favourite characters from the book, and I can't wait! I left them with the world at their feet, but things have changed, and they're about to change still futher - more than any of them can possibly imagine...
The Goddess Workshop started life as a stage play which was performed for three incredible nights at the Cambridge Drama Centre. Later, I attempted a screenplay of it, and finally, I wrote it as a novel, which allowed me to do so much more with it. With so many versions of the story, I lived with the characters for a long time - laughing with them, caring about them, and experiencing their challenges, heartaches and triumphs. I loved that group of friends. I heard their conversations inside my head as I walked the dog, and I missed them so much after I'd finished the book. So I'm thrilled to be about to plunge into their worlds again, and to spend time with old friends.
I wonder if any of you are about to plunge into some writing? To travel to that place where you're so submerged that magic happens frequently inside your head - plot points clicking together, story strands joining up satisfyingly, characters acting in ways you'd never even thought of, but which are so very right for your story.
This is the writing zone, where there is no procrastination, no trouble using every available piece of time to write, no worry about what others will think about your words. A place where your inner critic can be ignored. A glowing place of creativity and self-fulfilment. It's where I hope to be for the rest of the year, and it's where I hope you will be too, if you want to write.
But if you're finding it difficult to imagine yourself there, or you're trying to reach that place but it isn't working for you,why not enrol for my course FEEL THE FEAR AND WRITE ANYWAY, which I designed to help you to overcome blocks to your writing, to boost your writerly self-confidence and to help you really move forward with your writing goals. You can find out more and enrol HERE.
Happy writing! I'm off to a Sacred Crocodile pool in The Gambia.
Today I want to talk to you about how Joan of Arc destroyed my self-confidence. Actually, that’s not right - my apologies to Joan. It’s not fair to blame her. It was all entirely my fault.
Or maybe the teacher’s for putting me under so much stress.
But whoever was to blame, those few unhappy seconds in a French lesson when I was eleven years old had a dramatic effect on my self-confidence – an effect that lasted for almost twenty years.
Let me set the scene for you. I was newly transferred to the class, and painfully shy, so it was unfortunate that one of the first things I had to do was to give a talk in a French lesson. My allotted subject was Joan of Arc (for those of you who don’t know, Joan – otherwise known as Jeanne d’Arc – is a Fifteenth Century French saint). I duly did my preparation and went to stand nervously at the front of the class when it was my turn to speak.
Then I opened my mouth, and, with all eyes upon me, I said: “Joan of Arc was brought up as a pheasant.”
I had, of course meant to say peasant – a country dwelling agricultural worker, not a large, colourful game bird – but nerves got the better of me, and I’m sure you can imagine the reaction that followed my slip up. There was general hilarity in the class, pretty much drowning out the rest of my faltering words.
I expect my classmates soon forgot about it, entertaining as it was, but I certainly did not forget about it, and the incident affected me drastically. I clammed up almost completely after that – never saying anything at all in class unless I was forced to, and unfortunately this silence and terror extended to my life post-school. My extreme phobia about public speaking limited the courses I could take, and the jobs I could apply for.
Until finally, with my thirtieth birthday looming, I decided enough was enough. It was time to do something about this fear.
So, I did. Very gradually, until I proved to myself that I’d made a complete recovery by performing stand-up comedy to a crowd of two hundred people in a London comedy club. (I put my experiences into a novel!).
So, how did I do it?By taking baby steps, and celebrating each and every one.
First of all, I joined an adult education class – I don’t even remember what it was about now – and then I challenged myself to make one statement, or to ask one question at every session. Then two statements or questions. Then three. (You can’t imagine how my heart pounded and my hands sweated as I willed myself to speak).
I did it just a little bit at a time, until I was ready (yikes!) to join a public speaking course. There, I made people laugh. Deliberately, this time. It felt fantastic. After that, I felt ready to take a teaching qualification. And I discovered that I loved the performance side of teaching. Everything about teaching, in fact. Then, eventually, came that three-minute stand-up routine at the Up The Creek Comedy Club in Greenwich, which was one of the greatest moments of my life so far, and the pinnacle of getting over my public speaking phobia, I’m sure you’ll agree. Every time I feel my self-confidence ebb a little bit, I just watch myself on YouTube and remember that I did it. I actually did it. The sense of achievement that night was incredible. On a par with holding my first published book in my hand…
So, if you want to write, but something’s holding you back, find out what that something is. Be kind to yourself. Take baby steps to deal with it, and celebrate each and every one. Think in terms of asking a question in an adult education class, rather that a full-blown stand-up comedy performance straight away.Get support on your crusade. (Although maybe not from Joan!). Your efforts will be worth it, because all those little steps can add up to something bigger.
Like a novel!
Want to learn more about how fear can affect writers and what to do about it? Join my Feel The Fear Webinar on 20th October. If you can’t make it live, a recording will be available to those who register.
When my son was younger, I used to read picture books from the That’s Not My… series to him.
If you’re not familiar with them, there are hundreds of books in the series – That’s Not My Truck, That’s Not My Robot, That’s Not My Monster, even That’s Not My Cow! The format is always the same – they start off with several pages of, That’s not my… for example, That’s not my monster, it’s eyebrows are too hairy. Then they finish on a triumphant That’s my… That’s my monster, his spines are so prickly. (Or whatever it is).
With my new course Feel The Fear and Write Anyway coming out soon, I’ve been thinking about author fears a lot lately, and in particular, about how people might not always think they have any fears about writing.
But if you’re:
procrastinating, and rarely getting any writing done,
constantly putting other people’s demands before your desire to write, or
you never finish anything, and you’ve got a drawer full of unfinished stories,
Then fear is probably at work somewhere, whether it’s a fear about what people will think of what you write, or an insecurity about everything you feel you don’t know about writing, or, quite simply, the strongest fear of all, a fear of failure.
Sometimes, recognising our monster – in this case, what lies behind our self-limiting fear – can help us to deal with it and move on.
After all, nobody wants to keep a monster for a pet, do they? Even if it does have a very fetching pair of horns!
Let me introduce you to Emma. She’s fun to be around, enthusiastic about writing and very talented. These days she has established a writing routine that works for her, and she writes regularly, despite having four young children and a tendency to drop everything to go to music festivals.
But it wasn’t always like that. Emma’s enthusiasm and talent for writing were always there, but the writing routine was non-existent, and whenever she thought about writing, she felt fed up and blocked.
This was all because of a bad experience she had at a writing class, where she received very unhelpful feedback on her work. Far from highlighting Emma’s achievements and constructively suggesting areas for further development, the tutor for this (somehow) sought-after course, slated Emma’s work. He pulled it apart so thoroughly that her self-esteem – and virtually her will to live – were in tatters.
I might never have met Emma at all. She might have decided to give up on her writing dreams at that point. But a few years later two of her friends told her about my courses, AND she had a link to the enrolment page pop up on her Facebook timeline. Fortunately for me, Emma decided to view this as fate at work, because Emma came along to one of my courses, and she’s a joy to have in a class. Not only is she talented, but she’s so helpful to other group members.
When Emma first told me about her ordeal, and how it had stopped her from writing for several years, I was furious. How dare that tutor treat Emma’s precious writing dreams like that?
Emma explained to me that she was writing science fiction, which was far removed from the literary fiction the tutor had published, but this was no excuse at all, as far as I was concerned. Published writers – no matter how successful – should never forget how vulnerable people can feel when they first start sharing their words. I know I certainly haven’t.
When I first started writing, I was ridiculously sensitive! I remember the first time I read out a story at a writer’s circle, and I described a woman’s face ‘turning a colour somewhere between green and purple’ (with embarrassment and horror). OK, I realise now that it’s not a sentence from a great work of literature, but at the time I was pleased with it, and was quite taken aback when one of the group members stated quite abruptly that it wasn’t possible to have a colour between green and purple, and that I should use the word puce. Puce. I wasn’t even sure what the colour was, and I had to go home and look it up. And it was such a horrid word, sounding as it did, remarkably like…well, sick. My story was light-hearted and fun, with no pretensions to be anything else. Puce just didn’t fit. I felt discouraged, and never returned to the writer’s circle. (I told you I was sensitive in those days!)
As I’ve gained in experience and had many novels published, my self-confidence has grown to the point where I’m able to sift through feedback and make a judgement about whether it’s relevant and helpful or not. (If it’s from an editor, I’ve also learnt to be tactful if I don’t think so!) I always make a point in my writing classes of helping my students to develop the highly useful skill of giving and receiving constructive feedback. It’s such an important part of a writer’s development, because you can learn so much from it.
When I began teaching my creative writing classes, I encountered that vulnerability and that fear of exposure over and over again, and decided that my classes had to include an element of confidence-building in order to be of use to people.
As for Emma, she very kindly took part in the pilot version of my course Feel The Fear and Write Anyway – Self-Confidence For Authors, which opens for enrolment very soon. I asked Emma and other recent students to try it out and to give me feedback, so that I could make it as useful as possible. The power of feedback, see? I’m happy to say that all their suggestions were really helpful – and constructive!
I’m so excited that by creating an online course designed to boost writers’ self-confidence while they’re developing essential writing skills and habits, I’m going to be able to help people I might not otherwise have been able to reach. People who want to take that first step towards realising their writing dreams. Or, if they’re like Emma, people who want to recover from a set-back to move on towards their goal of completing a novel.
When we want to write, a fear of what other people think about us can really hold us back from:
Writing the way we want to write
Showing our writing to others (and therefore missing out on potentially valuable feedback, or even publication).
Writing at all!
I suppose, as human beings, we usually want to be accepted and approved of, even if it’s only because it’s much easier than feeling out of kilter and unaccepted.
So sometimes we hide who we really are in an attempt to fit in better.
You can watch a video of this blog post, or carry on reading!
For many years, while I was building my career as a writer, there were times when I wished with all my heart that I wasn’t a creative person. Yes, really!
I was working thirty-seven hours a week in a college of further education at the time – I’d started there as a temporary typist, then worked my way up to the heady heights of Central Admissions Officer, dealing with hundreds of applications to the college within an office of Examinations Officers.
I expect you get the picture. I was bored out of my mind. Frustrated that I had to work in a job I disliked so much, when all I wanted to do was to write my novels.
I was a fish-out-of-water, and I didn’t want be a fish-out-of-water.
I longed to belong, the way everyone else seemed to belong. I didn’t want to be viewed as a single, ex-art-college oddity, even if that was exactly what I was.
I wanted to be:
A relaxed receptionist.
An elated examinations officer.
A contented catering assistant.
I was convinced that people who didn’t experience a compelling need to produce art or literature found life amuch simpler. That they didn’t feel constantly torn and dissatisfied the way I did, and that it was much easier for them to feel contended.
I thought they could just be in a way I often couldn’t. (Even at my father’s funeral, there was a part of me – the writer part – that stood at a distance from events, observing everything and everyone. I loathed it, but was powerless to stop it.)
Back then, I thought everyone but me was content to live in the moment, without constantly wanting to submerge themselves in make-believe or to use their experiences to produce something. That they just were.
I also believed they were critical of me because I wasn't like them.
It was complete rubbish, of course.
I imagine the rest of the college staff mostly fitted in better than I did because they made more effort that I did. That at work, their creativity, or their focus, went into doing a good job, and not into getting by grudgingly until five o’clock.
And far from being judgemental or critical about little old self-conscious me and my way of life, I don't suppose they gave me very much thought at all!
I didn’t really stop worrying about what people thought of me until I was older, and had learnt to accept myself.
And getting consistently published was a large part of that, because with several books under my belt, at least I could think to myself, OK, I may be different, but at least I’m getting paid for it. People are buying my books. Enjoying them too, hopefully.
But the point is, if I’d allowed my fear of what other people thought of me - or in my case perhaps what I thought people thought of me - to completely destroy my spirit, then I might never have written my books. Or, even if I had written them, I may never have found the courage to show them to anybody. Or to take the initiative to ask for opportunities, or to pitch ideas, or any of the other things that can lead to success as an author.
When we first set out on our writing journey, the company and encouragement of other writers and would-be writers who understand can be a vital boost to our self-confidence.
As we start to trust other writers, we feel able to take that first frightening step of letting them read our work. And as with anything that’s frightening or challenging, every time you share your writing with other people, it gets easier to do. Your comfort zone expands, almost without you being aware of it doing so.
So, if you're holding back from writing or showing your writing out of a fear of what other people will think of you, try to take some action to break through that barrier, a little at a time.
Write exactly as you want to write.
Do something that could lead to you finding someone to share your writing with, like joining a writing group, class or forum.
And gradually, gradually, start to belive in yourself and your dreams.
As you do so, your horizons will expand almost without you realising it.
As a multi-published author, there are some questions that I get asked over and over again. One of these is:
"Where do you get your ideas from?"
When a would-be writer asks me this question, I'm often pretty certain that what they really want to know is, "Where can I get my ideas from?" Or, "How do I go about getting ideas for my writing?" So, I thought I'd make some videos about the way some of my ideas for my books have come to me, in case it helps other writers.
The first thing to say, is that there's no "one size fits all" way for me to get ideas for my novels and stories - ideas come to me from many different sources and in many different forms. It's bound to be the same for you.
On today's video, I'm talking about the way work and the various work places I've experienced have given me ideas for characters themes, and even whole novels. (Spoiler alert: it includes the world's largest trifle!)
We came to the marshes on Thursday last week, and it rained.
We watched, pensioner-like, from the car, the hot air blower on full to clear the mist, feeling disappointed. It wasn't just a light rain, it was a full-on pelting. Stair rods. People were returning from the distant horizon with boats and dogs, slipping in the churned-up mud slurries. Comical, yet enviable at the same time, because they'd been where I wanted so badly to go.
I got out of the car with my umbrella, reluctant to be cheated from my own fix, and immediately saw the vibrancy of the purple-mauve sea lavender undiluted by the glass of the windscreen - breath-taking, awe-inspiring, painted out against the dark drama of the rain clouds. So utterly beautiful.
But the rain persisted, and the dog barked relentlessly at the windscreen wipers, fraying three tempers, so we gave up.
Those marshes filled my mind though, returning again and again in the next few days, compelling me to try once more. We returned on Monday, my son, the dog and I. No rain this time, just four mischevious boys from the campsite who asked if they could have our car when we got out to put on our boots. (I didn't get the joke either).
Leaving them - and the car! - behind, we stepped out onto the long-awaited marshes. Funny, without the drama of the dark sky, the impact of the sea lavender was lessened, though still very present. The purple was mauve that Monday; subtle and sweeping instead of breath-taking, but still beautiful. The meandering path wasn't trying to make us slip or slide either - the mud was tamed, or almost so. We could leap over gullies in the safe low tide. Eat our sandwiches on a hummock of turf.
A baby was tapping into the primitive though, crawling and splashing, naked in the marsh mud. Blackened and comfortably content, his mother speaking to me of hosing down at the campsite, ignoring thoughts of cries and protests, or at least putting them aside for the present, in exchange for her son's life-fulfilling experience and wonder.
Any adult would have been envious of that unrestrained mud frolicking, wouldn't they? I know I was. And yet I smiled and made some comment I've forgotten now and moved on in the wake of my son and the dog.
They are so similar, my son and my dog. Without inhibitions, both of them speaking to new people without reserve, both taking the less straight-forward route through the marshes to catch a glimpse of magical, darting fishes in a pool left behind by the tide.
Acknowledging their contentment, I looked back the way we had come, towards the line of woodland crouched beyond the coastal path, marking the border of the campsite. As an oyster catcher hurried past with its urgent cry, ornagey-red bill pointing its way to who knows where, I imagined my characters as I will write them in my novel, making their way from the village hall. Two evacuees - an inappropriately-dressed mother and her young son, escorted by Lilias, the land-owning woman who has just claimed them, making their way back to Marsh House, their temporary home.
"There's nothing here, is there?" says the mother, as her heel turns yet again in the soft turf. "Nothing at all."
Lilias stands to observe the woman's unsteady progress and thinks of the sea lavender, the secret gullies and the oyster catchers. She grew up beside these marshes and loves them with her whole heart, but she says only, "We shall have to get you some boots."
I'm excited about writing my book; the ideas are growing and mushrooming in my mind, but right now I don't know if I can truly walk into it, or whether it will prove to be like last Thursday's marsh - kept just out of reach by life and circumstances for a while.
"I'm going to walk along the pipeline, Mum," my son calls to me, and I turn away from Lilias and her evacuees to make sure he's safe.
On Saturday, I took my son to London for the day, and after a hectic trip to the Natural History Museum to see dinosaur skeletons and to experience earth tremors, I parked him on a bench inside the Tate Modern.
While he happily played Jetpack Challenge on his phone, I toured the exhibition galleries with a good friend and absorbed myself in the paintings of the American artist Georgia O'Keefe.
Georgia (1897 -1986) painted sensuous mountains and flowers, using glowing colours and languid rhythms to show their essence and spirituality. She was passionate about her subjects, but also revealed the core of herself as she painted them.
At times, Georgia seems super-human, living as she did until the age of ninety-eight, dedicating herself to producing pioneering art, her career spanning seven decades. And yet, this straight-talking woman of strong opinions and an even stronger work ethic, longed to have a child with her lover then husband Alfred Stieglitz.
Twenty-four years older than Georgia, Stieglitz's favourite sister had died in childbirth. He also felt too old to become a father again. (Stieglitz had a daughter, Kitty, from a previous marriage). But chiefly, he felt that Georgia's fierce focus on her art would be diluted if she had someone else to think about.
I believe he was right here - although this doesn't necessarily mean he had the right to deny his wife one of the most fulfilling experiences there is in life. Georgia, who craved solitude, and who was at her happiest battling the elements in the deserts of New Mexico in order to paint its mountains, would certainly have had to employ someone to look after any children while she was thus engaged.
But, as any mother will know, whether they were taken care of or not, it's highly likely there would always have been a part of Georgia's brain reserved for her children. Having experienced that overpowering need to have a child myself (happily resulting in my son, Alfie, now eleven-years-old) I can understand how the urge to become a mother takes you over and controls every aspect of your life. Georgia O'Keefe's paintings are filled with emotion, and I've no doubt that her childlessness is built into their fabric, as must be the affair Steiglitz had with another younger woman for many years, and his ultimate death in 1946.
Georgia never had to fit in her passionate work between the equivalents of visits to the park, requests to use the pc to record YouTube videos or trips to Accident and Emergency after stunt scooter accidents, and she has an impressive body of work to show for it.
And yet, if we are mothers and we also want to write, paint, or to create in any way, then it's possible - and necessary both to ourselves and those around us - to find a piece of the creative world Georgia had in order for us to be fully ourselves.
So, I'm spending the summer compartmentalising my life, making bargains and compromises with my son. Unashamedly using YouTube and X-Box as baby sitters to give myself time for Gorgia O'Keefe focus. As my son is extremely passionate about watching YouTube and playing on his X-Box, I'm certain I could get away with leaving him to do this all day, allowing me to work without restraint to tackle my own personal New Mexico mountains.
But I wouldn't do it.
There are crabs to be caught. Waves to be surfed. Trees to be climbed. Adopted Shetland ponies to be adored.
In a few short years, my son won't need me nearly so much, and then I'll no doubt have more Georgia O'Keefe space and spirituality than I can handle.
So for now, I'll willingly juggle my life to embrace them both.
My guest this week for the Write Despite feature is author Emma Rose Millar, a single parent whose inspiring commitment to her work has had her give up watching TV and write through the darkest of times. But I'll let Emma tell you more about it.
What challenges have you had to overcome in order to write?
Hi Margaret, thanks for inviting me. Like many writers, I’d say the main challenge for me is lack of time. I’m a single mum and my six year old is on the autism spectrum. Raising a child with autism is a rollercoaster ride: exhilarating, lonely, joyous and exhausting, but never, ever dull. I’ve also got a day job; I’m a sign language interpreter in further education. At the moment I’m rehearsing with special needs students to interpret their latest drama production into BSL. Again, it’s a hugely rewarding job, but takes up a lot of emotional and physical energy. So I find there’s very little time to write. I only open up my laptop once my son’s gone to bed―any earlier and I start getting that parent-guilt―I constantly feel like I’m not doing enough as a mum. At one time I’d be up writing until two in the morning but that really wasn’t good for me and in the end I started to feel ill. I’ve had to be strict with myself and set a sensible time limit on my writing. These days, before bed I put on some music and do thirty minutes of yoga to try and unwind before I go to sleep. Otherwise my head’s full of ideas and I can’t switch off.
How do you this challenge has impacted on your writing?
Because I’ve reduced the amount I write, it now takes much longer to finish a manuscript, but I’ve come to realise that some things are more important. I’ve taken to writing novellas and children’s stories; they require much less commitment than a full length novel. I do also love my co-writing projects. My last novel Five Guns Blazing was an intricate tale of piracy, slavery and treason, which needed a huge amount of research. Having Kevin Allen as a co-writer meant I could share the workload.
Through our different backgrounds and experiences I think we managed to create a story it would have been very difficult for a single author to write. For my latest project, The Women Friends, I’ve also joined forces with another author. It’s a series of two novellas based on a painting by Gustav Klimt of the same name. Writing can be a lonely business, but writing in partnership with somebody else means you can bounce ideas off each other, share the high points and the low, give constructive feedback and pull each other through at those times mid-story when it’s easy to feel like there’s no end in sight. Marketing’s also so time-consuming that two heads are always better than one.
What was your greatest fear when you first started to write?
When I first started writing I was caught up in a bad relationship. I used to write in secret because I was terrified of my partner finding out. It was an extremely dark time in my life and that came across in my first novel. Strains from an Aeolian Harp was a story of domestic violence and opium addiction in 1920’s Britain where women weren’t allowed to divorce their husbands on the grounds of cruelty alone. I’ve started re-writing it now with a new title, Jezebels! and am hoping to make it more marketable. Of all the stories I’ve written, it’s always been the most important to me because it was so personal. I’m not ready to give up on it yet.
What advice would you give to someone who wants to write, but who is feeling held back by circumstances and /or challenges.
I truly believe that if you want to do something enough, there is no obstacle too big. The single best thing I did though was turning off my TV; I haven’t watched it for over four years now and looking back, I can’t believe how much of my life it used to swallow up, or what a negative impact it had on me. Did I need all those soap operas? No. I find writing a much more constructive way to spend my evenings and I love the feeling I get when I finish a novel or short story.
Tell us a bit about something you’ve written that you’re really proud of, or something you’re writing now.
Probably my proudest moment as a writer was winning the Chaucer Award, (Legend category) for Five Guns Blazing last year. The novel tells the story of convict’s daughter Laetitia Beedham who in 1710 is set on an epic journey from London’s filthy back streets, through transportation to Barbados and gruelling plantation life, into the clutches of notorious pirates Anne Bonny, Mary Read and John ‘Calico Jack’ Rackham.
Here’s a short excerpt:
“You have been brought before me again, Mrs Beedham!” The magistrate looked at my mother over his spectacles. She must have considered him an idiot if she thought that a flash of her ample cleavage and of her fine eyes would win her any favour. He took the monocle from his breast pocket.
“Theft of a handkerchief, soliciting, affray, the attempted theft of a lady’s purse.”
Her lips twisted at the corner into a little smile, which she quickly straightened, but she looked almost pleased with herself as the charges were read out. I could picture her clear as day, proudly emptying her stolen trinkets out onto our mattress, all shiny and gleaming in the dipping glow of the rush-lights, as a child might present a parent with a painting or piece of needlework. My mother’s eye was as keen as a magpie’s for anything sparkly; she could pick out at ease the glint of a cufflink or a hairpin in the dullest of crowds and would glide her way after it, completely unseen. Later, she would stand back to admire the baubles and bits of finery with her hands on her hips and a look of satisfaction in her eyes, then quickly her face would fall as if she had suddenly noticed they were tarnished or broken and she would snatch them back and wrap them away in her cloth.
Hers was the first case of the day; the beak had seen her at least three times before. Needless to say, my mother was well acquainted with the good magistrates of Holborn; such was her fondness for relieving wealthy ladies and gentlemen of their belongings; handkerchiefs, pocket watches and so on. The magistrate thumbed through a pile of papers on his desk, a history of her sordid misdemeanours, seemingly oblivious to the swelling underclass packing his courtroom, with their poor diction and their sticky fingers. The public gallery was full of them: undesirables and reprobates, sweating, scratching. There were women employed at their needlework, old men dozing, and a girl with some younger children who spread a muslin cloth upon her lap, then proceeded to break up a meat pie and divide it between them. And of course there was me, Laetitia Beedham, the accused’s daughter who had weaved my way through the tangle of legs and crouched behind a man who I imagined might have been a farmer, or gamekeeper. He stood solidly in front of me, cleaning the dirt from underneath his fingernails with a blade.
“Oh, don’t hang me, sir, I beg of you!”
The court seemed suddenly excited by her outburst. It was all entertainment to them; the law after all is only theatre; it did not matter much if one was hanged or not, it was all part of the drama.
“I only did it for my daughter, who was sick and in need of medicine. My husband’s dead, sir, what is a woman to do?”
I felt a blush burning from my collarbone to my temples, and someone laughed and shouted, “She is a liar, sir! The girl is the bastard child of two thieves!”