You only have to be in the room five minutes with her and you are laughing hysterically already.
My sister Michelle has a way of engaging with people that puts them at ease and has them looking at the funny side of life.
I have never known anyone to tell such interesting stories as she does, and her jocular, verbal communication is akin to the written style of Adrian Plass. What I mean is, she highlights every-day occurrences and life experiences in a way that makes you feel like you are actually there watching what she’s describing.
You see the characters, their persona and physical reactions to circumstances as if the scene was being played right in front of you.
Growing up, she always had a song that she would sing happily to herself while either playing, or pottering around the house. But although highly sanguine and extrovert in nature, she has a sensitive side that comes out when she’s being taken for granted, or made to do something she doesn’t want to do.
At her fifth birthday party she had to endure one of her ‘friends’ walking around with her brand-new doll in the name of, ‘share your toys’.
I wish I had known this at the time, but I was totally oblivious to this plight. Being 16 years old, I could have fought for her by reasoning with my mum, or simply yanking the said doll out of the invitee’s arms and hiding it upstairs. However, having such a wide age gap between us, meant that I was selfishly focussed on my own angst. I didn’t even want to be there – all those infants who I did not know, making unnecessary noise, getting excited over trivialities and showing me slobby green jelly as they chattered at the table with their mouths wide open.
I was wearing a cream 1950s skirt which my mum had made. It had so many folds that I felt like a cotton princess. I would place my hands inside the deep pockets and spin around and as I did so, the material would swirl tightly around my legs making me look like a giant umbrella when it is closed and clasped. When I ran down the stairs, the crisp folds flew daintily up to my face like a parachute. My underwear did not show because there was a thick satin lining underneath. I thought I looked cool – cool enough to be admired by a boyfriend I did not have. The boyfriend I am now glad did not exist, but at that moment, the desire consumed me.
One Saturday when Michelle was older, she hid in the toilets during her violin class because our parents wouldn’t accept that she hated those wretched music lessons. Nobody knew she was there and the teacher never found out. The memory of that lonely and scary time sat on top the lid of a loo, wishing the time away, stayed with her and added to the distaste for orchestras.
Again, I was none the wiser, having my head in the clouds about the stresses of working in a job I didn’t like.
When I found out many years later, I was mortified that she had experienced such trauma and isolation. I always knew she wasn’t keen on playing a stringed instrument, and going by the odd grating sound this wooden contraption made each time she ran a bow across it, I was aware it wasn’t her forte, but alas, oblivion overtook any discernment I could have had that she was silently suffering.
When we were older, we both worked along the same strip of high street and I had always thought how lovely it would be if we had lunch together from time to time.
Despite my frequent suggestion, this never happened and it made me sad. One day however, Michelle came into the shop where I worked and seemed nervous and a tad embarrassed.
“Have you got any money I can borrow? For lunch? I’ve run out and…”
“Of course you can!” I had exclaimed in surprise, and went to fetch my purse.
This request happened a further two occasions, but not once did my brain twig the reality of the situation. Firstly, her wages were not enough to live on and she was struggling to survive. Secondly, this was why she wasn’t keen on meeting up for lunch. Half a sausage roll would have given the game away and rendered her humiliated. She had probably been missing meals for quite some time and was too ashamed to discuss the matter.
Every memoir writer strives to recall the emotions of others from decades ago, and fiction authors often like to use past experiences for the characters of their novels.
But even better is when the person penning the story is the victim themselves. They can remember a whole hoard of reasons why certain things happened, and would be able to re-tell the tale far better than anyone else.
I am sure that Michelle could explain these depressing experiences so well, that her audience would laugh and cry at the same time. I would love to see these scenarios in print!
We all have a story to tell and you know by now that I say that often.
But, many people assume they would not be able to publish a book themselves. You can do it.
It would be interesting because it is exclusive to you.
It does not have to be in memoir format – it could be a fictional character playing you.
When Michelle walks into a room full of people, all eyes are on her, because the way she engages with people is always interesting and her stories are compelling. She has a brilliant way of making you hang onto her every word, and her descriptive mimicry draws you in. If she put this skill to paper, she could fill libraries.
Maybe you are like her also. Do you keep the crowd entertained at parties? Then, why not try doing so in print?
I challenge you to try. You could speak into a dictaphone if the thought of mass typing unnerves you. Which ever way, just do a sentence a day if that’s all you have time for.
Think about your life and the folk who are regularly around you. If you have a way with words like nobody else, then, imagine them on a page, and go for it.
Now, I’m off to encourage my little sis’ to do the same.
Happy writing,
