By the time October arrives, I start bracing myself for the chilly months ahead. I would handle the seasons so much better if I had popped out on the Greek side of my family. When the chill factor gets pushed along by a force 6 east to northeasterly, I don’t want to go outside at all, apart from to bring in fuel for the fire. 🥶 If I was a bear, I would go into hibernation but as Cassie the Blog Dog loves her walks so much and always asks to go so nicely, I would be a brute to refuse.
I am currently holed up in my woman cave editing the final chapters of my current WIP, Defining Moments. Honing, polishing and pruning. At least that is what I am supposed to be doing and not playing around with the video synopsis.
Defining Moments is the bittersweet story of the life of Lisa Grant, ex-columnist for Focal Point magazine, who struggles with sustaining a long-term relationship because of the fallout from her dysfunctional childhood. Broke and alone with her fortieth birthday looming, she faces up to the ghosts from her past, confronts the negative emotional hold her narcissist mother has over her and digs herself out of her self-dug rut.
After three years and 5 months, Defining Moments is too long, so part of the current edit involves hacking off a few chunks. So it’s outtake time again.
Lisa’s eyes began to glaze over as she stared out of the kitchen window into her mother’s small, but beautifully, manicured London SW1-facing garden.
The continuous drone of her mother’s voice delivering her tedious and well-rehearsed marriage monologue was beginning to grate. She had lost count how many times she had heard it before and it was all such total bullshit anyway. Her mother of all people, extolling the virtues of married life and portraying herself as the epitome of the perfect wife and mother was outrageous. Forty years and two husbands later she was still in a relationship with extra-curricular Jeremy.
Excelling as a loving wife was not in her nature. As long as the registry office ceremony took was Elizabeth’s idea of standing by her man. As for a loving mother, Lisa had grown up fantasising about how sweet her life would be if her mother had been Shirley from the Partridge Family.
Elizabeth moved around the kitchen slowly during her monologue. She was tiny, like a ballet dancer and like a danseuse, pointed her toes before putting her foot on the floor. Occasionally, she would pause for effect, shaking an irritated finger or clasping an exasperated hand to her forehead.
So many times over the years Lisa had attempted to disagree, but her mother would talk over her. So what was the point? Reasoning with, let alone disagreeing with a self-opinionated narcissist in full flow is totally futile.
“You should be concentrating on finding yourself a husband before it’s too late. That nice Jack Wilde asked you once … how you had the nerve to turn him down is beyond me. He won’t be asking you again anyway, as he’s moved on to greener pastures now, you missed your chance and we can only hope you’ll get another.’
There was a pause as Elizabeth lowered her head and clamped her hand to her brow. Lisa could feel and hear the steam rushing out of both ears. Enough was enough and she grabbed her mother’s theatrical silence as the opportunity to interject.