Women Like Us: A Memoir by Amanda Prowse

Author:Amanda Prowse [Prowse, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little A
Published: 2022-09-05T16:00:00+00:00

Writing Poppy Day on the step in our shop, dreaming, hoping of getting published one day.

The thought of writing a book had been nearly four decades in the making, what did I have to lose?

Quite a lot, as it turns out! Simeon had gone back to Afghanistan for a month or so. I no longer had a proper job and going from two incomes to one is never easy. We made drastic cuts to ease our outgoings and enable me to write. We sold our car, nearly all our furniture and my precious collection of books and ornaments. Selling my books was the only thing I regret and I’m slowly buying them all back. We maxed out our credit cards and as a family ate pasta in an extra jumper and thick socks, as we were reluctant to put the heating on.

At first this felt like the first steps on my bohemian journey, all very arty-farty and exciting, but very quickly the novelty of living this way wore off. We had both lived with hardship at times in the past and to see a huge drop in our standard of living, while dragging our kids along for the ride, at times, quite frankly, felt nuts. But we persevered, fuelled by nothing more than the idea of what life might be like for the kids and us if my dream came true.

One question, however, a big question that had the potential to throw a spanner in the works, rolled around in my head and threatened to extinguish the flame of confidence that was about to ignite all the emotional and mental kindling I’d been collecting for years: ‘What on earth am I going to write about?’ The same question that had dogged me since Mrs Blight had laughed at my confession of wanting to write stories when I was only a little girl. I had drawers and drawers in my brain full of stories, and had even penned a couple of tales that had never seen the light of day, but were they any good? Were they the books I wanted to write?

It occurred to me then: I had to write about what I knew, so that spurred the next question: what did I know? It was as I pulled back from the keyboard and took a deep breath, closing my eyes, concentrating on clearing my mind and thinking only about those filing cabinets in which my ideas had been neatly placed since I was a small child that my thoughts became clear. It was a rush of information, a whoosh of realisation that carried me along on its crest, elated by the clarity of thought and able, finally, to make a plan:

I knew motherhood.

I knew families.

I knew what it felt like to be an army wife.

I knew the East End of London.

I knew what it felt like to have my husband away on tour.

I knew my fear was of him being taken hostage or coming home injured.

I knew love.

I knew loss.

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