After several months of relief from RSI, the problem has return. Sore shoulders, and so on. I plan to start the physiotherapy exercises again, but I have found that piano playing really helps with relaxation and posture.
I’ll be upgrading the blog over the next two weeks to give it a new feel and domain name of its own. However, much of the subject matter and design style will remain the same, and I’ll still be blogging about creative writing, the novel, music and piano playing – just like before!
As regards to the current novel I’m working on, I’ve changed some of the context of the creepy cliff walk back, told through the viewpoint of the second main character, Dawn.
Here goes…Dawn is a clinical psychologist who has lost her license and spent a few years in prison for manslaughter. She has no recollections of the event and believes she killed her former boyfriend after he subjected her to a series of subtle but menacing mind games. Dawn’s father, however, suspects his daughter might be innocent and launches his own investigation into what really happened. The following section, told from Dawn’s viewpoint, has been altered and forms part of the back story of the events leading up to the murder.
The remainder of the week passed like a holiday of sorts, the first half slower than the second, even though she’d been in the area a week. She took bus trips most morning to the surrounding resort towns and bays. Sometimes, over a glass of lemonade and a sandwich, she exchanged a few words with tourists, but mostly, she preferred the newspaper and her own company.
Nina rang late on Friday afternoon. Told her that Ryan and his mates had been posting boozy holiday photographs on Facebook earlier, and that she shouldn’t miss the barbeque tomorrow because Ryan wouldn’t be back in the country until the middle of next week. After the call, she spent a couple of hours on the beach. At half seven, she got up and started back towards the cliff path, hesitating suddenly at the foot of the path. She was conscious of an unusual sensation, like someone watching her. Obviously, Ryan couldn’t be observing her, as he was in Spain.
The sun had begun to settle over the horizon, its pink grapefruit glow blending with the calm sea. There were still people on the beach: families walking along the shore, a large group of teenagers on the pathway leading down from the main road, swinging from the railings. But nothing suspicious. The cliff walk normally lasted ten minutes. Unless she went into town and took the steep grassy climb by the roundabout – equally secluded – there was no other way up to the cottage. In any case, I’m being paranoid, she told herself. There’s no one there.
She began the climb, walking as fast as she could, panting from the path’s steep gradient that seemed to get steeper with every footstep, the closeness in the air making her hot and light headed. She had to stop several times to get her breath back. The stillness was thickening, the beginning of dusk making the path ahead look darker. The quietness had taken on an oppressive quality of its own, like a shadow lurking nearby, watching her make her way up the hill. She felt a shudder pass through her and paused to look back a couple of times. Nothing.
The taut stillness kept thickening, reminding her of angry bees. The shore below appeared deserted now, although there were still some people around. She attempted to run the rest of the trail, the roar of blood in her head drowning out the soft movement of the tide below. Fresh shadows formed ahead on the pathway. Wisps of movement. She drew to a halt.
Summer storms. Dark skies in the middle of the day. Rain blowing in gales across fields, wind tearing at fences and telegraph poles. Police officers and search parties with torches, trudging through the bleak countryside in Wellington boots, searching for Katie.
Pushing aside memories of that other summer twenty-three years ago, she ran towards the lane of cottages that were visible now in the fading daylight, fighting against the breathlessness and the humid heat, until a stitch in her side finally forced her to stop by a bench near the top. She slowed her tempo to brisk waking pace, her shins and thighs aching from the exertion, specs of light dancing before her eyes from the continuing mugginess. Her unease kept mounting. Thunderstorms were on their way, she knew. Another summer of storms, like those summer storms twenty-three years ago when Katie disappeared. The thought made her shiver. She glanced back down the path. Nothing. With all the strength she could muster, she strode on towards the lane of cottages, wincing from the stitch in her side.
Moments later, she arrived at the cottage out of breath. The gate scraped against the pavement when she opened it. She made her way across the unkempt stretch of grass in the centre of the garden to the front door, coming to another halt when she heard a rustle of movement nearby.
She fumbled around for her keys, her hands shaking as more taunt stillness pressed in, bringing with it images of shadows waiting in the lane. Once again, she thought she heard footsteps nearby. The sounds stopped. Thrusting the key in the lock, she pushed the front door open and ran into the hallway where she shut the door with a slam and put the chain over the lock. She tiptoed upstairs, across the landing in the twilight, and perching low, crept towards the window to peer out at the lane. There were no signs of movement outside or everything suspicious, only the cliff tops and the dwindling evening light.
Switching on the bedroom light, she drew the curtains and changed into a fresh set of clothes, as the other ones were sweaty from the climb. After looking out of the window one last time, she phoned Nina who rang back five minutes later and told her that according to the latest photo on Facebook, Ryan and his two friends were drinking beer outside a club in Spain, getting happily drunk. Heaving a sigh of relief, she thanked Nina, ran off and went to the kitchen to make a mug of decaffeinated. Instead, she settled for a large glass of wine, her hands shaking after the imaginary encounter by the front gate. That’s what it had been, hadn’t it? An imaginary encounter caused by the stress and the heat? No one had followed her up the cliff.
Even so, she got up to draw the kitchen blinds. The throbbing stillness continued to press in, along with the vague sense of someone watching. The mugginess was getting worse, a band tightening around her temples. She felt a headache coming on. The electrical charge in the air warned of severe storm weather. Shutting her eyes, she massaged the side of her head.
Thunder rumbled across the bay, followed seconds later by splattering rain on the paving stone outside. There was another growl of thunder, louder this time. She opened her eyes. Thoughts of earlier crammed her mind: the darkening and shadows on the cliff pathway, the ominous silence swooping down in the heat, the rustle of movement near the front fence. From her position at the kitchen table, she saw a flicker of lightning appear by the lounge window, illuminating the front garden. A sudden crash of thunder made her jump. More lightning at the window, followed by a pause in the storm as the steady thud of rain became a downpour. She went into the lounge to draw the curtains. Without warning, the reading lamp by the CD rack came on by itself.
Sometimes, I get problems with RSI. Physiotherapy exercises help, as long as I do them gently. The other day, I read something fascinating in the health section of the Daily Mail. Heat rubs and cold treatments containing menthol as the active ingredient don’t actually do anything to solve the problem, other than temporarily remove the discomfort by warming or freezing the skin. For some reason, I always assumed the treatments were delving deep into the muscles.
So it’s back to the exercises for me. Playing the piano helps a lot, but other activities, like talking on a mobile phone, aggravate the problem.
Still having some problems with RSI, although they’re not as bad as before. Also having a huge struggle with the novel writing, in particular the plot in the psychological thriller I’ve been working on. Ruthless editing sometimes makes the original problems a lot worse.
I ended up scrapping much of the rewrite of the last three weeks and going back to the original text. I still need to address the difficulties in the man’s viewpoint, but I’ve been sketching a lot of background notes to bring his character to life.
Still sore from the RSI…
I’ve found playing the piano helps the most. Sitting at a computer doesn’t necessarily aggravate it but talking on a mobile makes it worse. Also having problems with the writing at the moment. I’m working on a psychological thriller, trying to get the plot right. I took out a problem character situation, thinking this would allow the story to run more smoothly. Instead, it has knocked the entire story off course.
Discomfort and soreness in my arms and fingers coming from the neck area. I managed to get rid of RSI for a few days by avoiding using the mobile phone too much, but it came back when I started spending large amounts of time on the phone again. Activities like playing the piano and writing at the computer don’t seem to cause problems, thankfully.
It’s back. Discomfort in the elbows and arms coming from the neck area. I suppose I’ll have to dig out the exercises the physio gave me last year.
I’m a classical pianist, and I spend hours at the computer writing fiction most days. Yet, neither is causing the problem. At one point, my sleeping angle was doing it, but now I think it’s the mobile phone. I’m spending too much time in the wrong position.