Beginnings, middles
... and other people's endings.
In the churchyard I have to ask Paul and Dave their names again, an instant after they’ve told me. Paul and Dave, Dave and Paul. Goliath. The road to Damascus. That’s how they tell me to remember, sitting on the bench in the sun with their beers, a view to the graves and roses.
Paul has been homeless through three winters now. In Brighton they give him money and tea. In Hove, where we are, there’s more money but no one gives it away. He sleeps on this bench sometimes. They are warm and kind, asking nothing of me but my name.
My dog does all the talking. She widens my world up indiscriminately, prising people open with optimism. She’s dragged me away from my desk where I’ve been not writing for an afternoon. Not writing about an eighteenth century ancestor I’ve become obsessed with, because there are too many unknowable facts to know, and I’m afraid of facts. And not writing about her because of Gaza, because it seems impossibly frivolous to spend years following one person’s imaginary soul through history, when so many thousands of souls right here, just over there, and everywhere now - with stories to be heard - now - are not being heard.
My algorithm is getting more detailed with people braver than me turning the volume up on their voices. Just as other stories emerge of it being more dangerous than ever to express an opinion. Simple opinions like no thank you. Not that.
The wind has been up on the coast this weekend and my brain, with just two tiny work-free days to catch thoughts onto a page, is awash with big waves.
I’m getting better at starting stories that prise open hearts and questions, and I’m more afraid than ever to end them. I’m afraid to draw conclusions. To allow my characters to commit. To force them in any particular direction. Somewhere between a beginning and an ending is a decision. The limbo of not knowing how to help. Creativity as an elaborate wrestling match in the heart with guilt. And other indulgent thoughts it feels frivolous even to write. Even to write.
However, some brilliant people actually manage to finish things:
Like this direct line across borders.
And this brave simplicity, which won an award because it does reward 4 minutes of attention.
And this deliciously written summer read a wonderful friend recommended.
And this which will be extraordinary, because she is.
And this - we need more of on Netflix.
And this tender album, which fills my body with thoughts…
And was recommended to me by this dear person, who has just finished his new online pottery shop. Yes a brazen plug.
Happy questing and resting to you all. May you find your balance in the wild wind.