Reginald Bobich doesn’t mean to be a jerk. If he could just get rid of the tiny stones trapped in his socks long enough to think clearly, he’d be able to get through his day without hurting anyone. But they’re so damn irritating! He just can’t concentrate on anything else, not even a bank robbery, his wife’s panic or his office building burning to the ground.
The inspiration behind this story is to do with Norwegian sandpits: my daughter spends quite a large proportion of the day in the sandpit at kindergarten, and as such, brings a lot of it home in her shoes and clothes. What Norwegians call sand and what I call sand are two very different things. To me, sand is whitish-yellow, fine, soft and very slightly gritty if you get it in your eyes or mouth. To a Norwegian, sand is something more like very fine gravel; a substance once trapped in your socks seems never to come out again. I have spent many days at the office with this “sand” caught in my socks or stockings, being slowly driven mad. And when you have something so seemingly insignificant nagging at you all day long, you tend to lose all perspective. Rocks In His Socks is all about how we let tiny irritations blind us to what’s going on around us, sometimes at great personal cost.
Finding out you’re pregnant doesn’t always make a woman jump for joy: for some women it’s a terrifying, unexpected and even unwanted discovery. Saltines and Cat Poo is about one such woman. She’s married to a man who has never been interested in procreation and she believes this one little accident could even end their marriage. Throughout her pregnancy she’s plagued with doubt and fear both for the life of the child she’s not sure she wants and for the relationship that has to withstand something it perhaps wasn’t built for.
This story was inspired by my own experiences and those of friends who had fears about what a new life would do to change their existing one. For a generation of women brought up to believe in nurturing their own lives first, this taboo subject is often only whispered about. There is something fundamentally wrong with that, in my opinion. Through this story, I’ve sought to unearth some of the feelings and experiences many women go through during their pregnancies, so that perhaps they won’t feel so alone, and may realise that these feelings are normal and don’t make them terrible mothers. In fact, I believe they make you a better mother: a bad mother wouldn’t worry so much.
In ancient Greece the peerless beauty, Amaranth, walks into the Alcyonian Lake and drowns, becoming the first immortal eidolon, cursed to forever wander amongst the living, unseen and unheard. Thousands of years later in the modern-day city of Lennox, nineteen-year-old Eva Hamilton throws herself off a cliff and awakens unharmed on the rocks below. With no memory of why she jumped and unaware she is bound by an ancient curse, she must find a way to either accept or escape her fate.
Back in 2009 I awoke one morning from a dream that I had started writing a novel about a girl called Eva. The name of the book in the dream is way too embarrassing to share with you, but it did plant the seed of an idea in my mind.
When I was a child, I used to write little books, complete with (terrible) illustrations, staple them together and give them away as gifts. Even back then I would brag about how I was going to be an author when I grew up.
The problem was that I never had any truly good ideas. Even when I decided to study professional writing in my 20s, I had a horrible time coming up with ideas to complete the assignments. I’m fairly sure most of what I wrote was complete rubbish. Don’t get me wrong, the writing itself was quite sound, at least if my grades were anything to go by, but it was the fact that it was based on almost nothing that brought it down.
So anyway, after I had the Eva dream I started to think about writing again for the first time in years. Walking home from work one day I looked around at the other people going about their business and thought to myself, “I really don’t pay attention to any of these people. They could be the walking dead, and I would never know.” And the idea for Amaranth was born.
Once I made a start, the ideas, for once, came thick and fast. I just sat down one evening and started to write, and the more I wrote, the more the story formed in my mind. I badgered my partner constantly about whether he thought this or that idea was good and, though he would claim otherwise, he helped me shape the idea into something I could apply a story to.
Not long afterwards, I fell pregnant with my daughter and the whole project was more or less shelved. I did write bits and pieces while I was traveling for work in Japan and the US, but there was something about the plot-line I had in mind that just didn’t sit right. I decided to leave it alone for a while and concentrate 100% on motherhood.
Throughout my daughter’s first year, Amaranth would pop up and swim about in my head now and then, the idea would morph and change, and then slink back into my subconscious. It wasn’t until she started in kindergarten and I had a few moments to myself that I felt ready to think about it seriously again. I cringed as I took out what I had written nearly two years before, ready to throw out the lot and start again.
