Celebrating being a Woman

When I first wrote Master and Apprentice six years ago, my sister pointed out to me that my female characters were weak and two dimensional. I was disgusted with myself that, as a woman, I couldn’t portray my own sex in a better light, so I went back and had a good look at my ladies. That’s when I fell in love with Destry – and of course, eventually Reez did too.

But what at first seemed to be an oversight on my part, actually turned out to be part of a deeper issue about my self-image.

As a child, I moved around a lot because of my Dad’s job. Each time we would start off in prison officer’s quarters until my parents found a house to buy. Then we moved again. I changed schools every three years of my life, so keeping friends was an impossibility. When I was seven, we moved down south, where my strong Lancashire accent became a source of ridicule. I was also chubby and wore glasses. Even now, I can still remember my shame when the kids sang “Nellie the Elephant” as I walked up the stairs.

I retreated into my books, which became my escape from a cruel reality. My Mum and Dad were not readers, and although they fed my desire for books, they also scorned my pastime, judging it a waste of time and pushing me outdoors to play. As a physically awkward girl, and the last one to be picked for any team, this wasn’t fun for me at all.

Not being popular or athletic, I decided to be clever, instead, but my Dad in his mistaken desire to push me to success, belittled even those efforts and criticised me heavily. I learnt that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be good enough.

The years of my teens and adulthood are awash with my attempts to either dull my pain, or search for love and acceptance. Unfortunately, the highlights include heavy drinking, promiscuity, divorce, depression and suicidal thoughts. Despite becoming a Christian at age twenty-four and believing in a God who loves me unconditionally, the knowledge remained an intellectual exercise. I was deeply unhappy and hated myself. I couldn’t accept that anyone else could love me either.

Not only that, but I was scathing and critical of both myself and my own sex. I was quick to point out faults instead of praising strengths. You would think I would admire women who rose up against all the odds and took positions of power. Instead, I scrutinised them and felt vindicated when they failed in some way.

Healing and self-acceptance has been a long road for me. I have slowly surrounded myself with wonderful supportive female friends who have loved me and held my hand as I explored what it is to be a woman. What it is to be me. I have learnt that I am beautiful in my own right. I have learnt that I am worthy of being loved.

My husband has been a rock in my life. He is an amazing man who has been unswerving in his love. After nearly twenty-five years of marriage, I know that he will always be there for me. I now believe that he really does like me and isn’t just passing time until someone better comes along.

And through it all, God has gently, but persistently, been chipping away at those massive walls I built around myself, bringing me out into the light and shining the light of his love on me every single day.

This Jubilee weekend, we had friends over for dinner, and after wine and cocktails I got into a deep discussion with my beta reader, Vix, about the protagonists in my books. She had tears in her eyes when she said how thrilled she was to be reading my latest story with a strong female lead, which proved to her how much I had come to accept myself over the past few years.

I’m not finished yet, but I’m getting there

This year, I am eagerly awaiting the birth of my first granddaughter. I can’t wait. I hope she will learn that she is beautiful, talented, and deserving of love just for being herself. That she is the hero in her own story. And I hope she will look at her Nana and see a courageous woman who finally realises she is worthy.