Sam’s Story
Sunday, February 7th, 2010More than a year ago, Sam and her co-author sent in a manuscript for assessment. It showed promise, but needed some changes before we felt it would be ready to show to a publisher. Life and work took over and the book was put on hold – after all, there was no rush. Then, on Monday 12th October 2009 at 7.28pm, Sam was told it was more than likely the lump in her left breast was cancer. Just over two weeks later she went into hospital and her left breast was removed. This is her story.
We wish you all the luck in the world.
That Work, Life, Writing, Balance Thing
I have always enjoyed writing from a young age: keeping diaries (well, at least for the first two weeks of every year); venting my teenage anger through poetry (then ripping it up); researching holiday projects set by school; and even completing lengthy coursework at university.
I particularly loved the projects set for us at primary school every May bank holiday and I was disciplined. I wouls sit at the small fold-away table for a couple of hours every day in the prefab holiday chalet on the Essex coast and I would write, draw, cut, stick, anotate, edit and so on. Every now and then I would be distracted by my younger sisters and brother as they ran past the rotting double-glazed doors to the front of our tiny holiday home, flinging buckets and spades down on the grass in exchange for tennis rackets and balls. But I was quite happy where I was, simply writing at the table.
So why then has it taken me nearly two years to write 65,000 words of a first draft of a novel that may never be published? Why am I not as disciplined now as I was when I was a child, devoted to my school projects? Have I become lazy as an adult? Am I so busy I just can’t find the time? The answer is deadlines. I can’t work without them.
I started off really well. The book began during a conversation and a glass of wine or two with a friend and neighbour. Together we shared anecdotes on our parenting skills (or lack of) and I went away and started to write. We got into a good routine of meeting, drinking wine, and note-taking.
For the first couple of months I took the laptop to bed every night, a time when I could not be distracted. The ideas flowed, and the characters became alive. I had not planned how they would behave or respond to each other; they decided for themsleves as they went about their daily lives. Together we were having a ball. Every day I set myself a goal: “By next week I will have another five thousand words. In three weeks I will have completed the first hundred.” And I more or less stuck to it.
But, as my work as a headteacher became more intense, I left earlier in the morning and arrived home past seven most nights. I went to my office on a Saturday and worked through every school holiday. We were also so busy as a family! I don’t know how I managed to find time for watching my favourite television programmes, going out for a glass of wine with friends and googling fantasy holidays, but somehow I did. Time for the book was reduced to Sunday afternoons and family holidays. I was no longer scheduling time. I lost the momentum.
There were times when weeks would lapse before I re-connected with the laptop and my characters. The advice is right. If you do not write every day, if only for five minutes, it does take time to coax your book back to life.
When I did turn my laptop on I actually felt disloyal to my characters. I was embarrassed to have treated them with such neglect. I often left them facing a crucial decision for far longer than was acceptable. I was not completing their story, not giving them closure on a crisis they had been left facing. How they did not abandon me for good I do not know!
Then, just recently my whole world was turned upside down. On Monday 12th October at 7.28pm I was told it was more than likely the lump in my left breast was cancer. I sat in the chair next to my husband and stared back at my consultant in absolute horror. I was not old enough to have the disease! I was so busy with my new job and home life there just really wasn’t time for this - I was not ready to die.
Mortality hits you, it hits you hard. When you find yourself discussing timescales for living in earnest with your consultant, and your chances of surviving for at least ten years, you look back on how you have spent your time. You question your own behaviour over the years and wonder what the point of life is, if this is how scared death makes you feel. To even contemplate sitting down and picking up the computer and writing now was laughable… I was bloody angry.
On Thursday 29th October I walked in to hospital. I could not speak to my husband, I could not look at the nurses without loathing and I wanted to punch the kind consultant, as he held my hand and promised me he would not let anything go wrong. I cried over the left breast I was about to lose.
I woke up six hours later after lengthy surgery. I threw up twice, I did not remove the oxygen tube clipped to my nose, I let the tubes connected to my arm pits drain the fluids in to bottles either side of my bed and with morphine surging through my veins, I slipped in and out of conciousness, grateful for being alive.
It was as I lay there, television on in the background and people talking around me I decided I was not going to waste another minute of my life. What did I want to achieve for myself? I asked my husband to bring my laptop in. He frowned and reminded me of the consultants plea for me to rest and forget about work. But I didn’t want to work, I wanted to write. I really missed it.
On Saturday, two days after receiving a boob job of teenage proportions I propped myself up on the pillows, I switched on, clicked open the folder and read the last fifty pages. I was tired, the morphine was still being controlled by a pump I could press every five minutes. I did nothing else. The computer sat on the trolly quietly humming to itself. I am not sure who switched it off. It sat in silence keeping vigil by my bed all night.
On Sunday morning I switched on again, I corrected some of the many typos I had made over the last fifty pages. But the relationship between the characters and I was still in the early stages of getting to know each other again. I laughed at some of the situations they had got themselves in to- they were there, still alive, eager to brighten up my day- but I couldn’t think of anything new, exciting, or funny for them. I wanted them more than I did my family and friends. After an hour I stopped.
On Monday I couldn’t write, I didn’t want to. I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow. I was toxic with morphine and doubled up with stomach cramps from the anti-inflammatory drugs. I slept all day and late that night I cried with anger. It was all about me again. Book forgotten.
On Tuesday afternoon I opened up my laptop again. How to get started? I didn’t know where to start. I thought about how I encourage children at school to plan a story.
In a SATs exam my poor year sixes had ten minutes to plan a piece of creative writing on a topic, not of their choice, before completing a polished piece of work in half an hour, with no opportunity for re-writes.
I decide to bullet-point random ideas about the characters. I could not write the next sentence to where I had put my last full stop so many weeks ago. I managed a couple of hours of brainstorming between the disruption of medical observations, phone calls to work, a lunchtime visit from my wonderful son and more sleep.
Before shutting down for the day I wrote a schedule, I needed the discipline back. What did I want to achieve over the coming weeks? I included time to write every day, at least half an hour of quality time with my beloved characters. I set myself small goals. I spent the evening mulling over the ideas I had collated and started to imagine what my characters might do. I planned the next steps in order of ideas that engaged me, not necessarily in the right order of the story, but starters in writing that would get the juices flowing again!
By Wednesday morning my characters had forgiven me and I wrote. Their behaviour made me laugh for hours. Interruptions were tolerated! A nurse would pop in now and again and I would keep their antics safe and close down the file. (I did not know how she would react to my googling ‘types of female waxing’ and I did not have the time or energy to share my writing with anyone else!)
Today is Thursday, one week since the operation. I am feeling positive, I am ready to embrace the future and my writing, for now, is back on track.
I know, a dramatic way of being kicked into touch and getting back to doing what I enjoy… but I guess what I am trying to say is if you love writing, do not give up on it, even if you miss a few days, a couple of weeks or in my case a couple of months! But at the same time ditch the excuses- you either intend to sit down and write that day or you don’t. Make it your ‘me time’, your ‘down time’, your release from the daily grind. As I have said time and time again to my family and friends since being diagnosed with cancer. I need time for me, to do what I want to do. Forget the trivia, it will always be trivia.
When I do kick the bucket, I do not want everyone standing around my eco-friendly coffin saying “Do you remember how neat and tidy Sam’s house was?” I want them to say: “What a girl – she had such a zest for life, she was always doing something interesting”, and just maybe, “wasn’t her novel a great read.”


