Write what you know, they say…
So I’m trying, simultaneously, to craft a poem about kindness – which I don’t always understand, a short story comparing women to tuning forks, and to empty my head onto the page. Only none of it’s working.
Write what you know, they say…
I’m too damn distracted. Can’t concentrate. One moment I’m poised with a well-sculpted sentence, then the next I’m googling Marianne Faithfull because she sounded so lovely on Radio 4 the other day. Then I realise that the first thought I had was about her and Mick Jagger (yes, I know, and I’m not proud of it) and how utterly sexist it is for women to be defined by the man she was with.
That’s an odd thing isn’t it? If you find a thought or a memory in one of the dusty corners of your mind – one you haven’t looked at for decades – is it OK if, for a moment, it’s still stuffed with old beliefs from before you knew better?
Write what you know, they say…
So back to the scribbles, until a hunt for the perfect shipping container conversion wins my attention. It’s what I want, OK. And there are some fantastic ones out there. Mine might have wallpaper and large Swiss balls instead of chairs.
Write what you know, they say…
I know that we’re lucky to have cars, with windows that wind down. Have you noticed how all of the good things that are peeping around the corner of our lockdown need a car (or, more specifically, a window that winds down)? Coffee, burgers, movies, veg boxes, comedy shows, leisure (misc) and the avoidance of public transport – they all need a set of wheels, of your own. It’s not very fair, is it?
Write what you know, they say…
Then a light goes on: it’s not a tuning fork I’m talking about, but a something else. What’s thing vibrates in sympathy with the things around it rather than setting the pitch for the vibration? The opposite of a tuning fork, perhaps. Gah!
Write what you know, they say…
Apparently, it’s now time for an appointment with my old friend Dr Search. What can I do to stop my ankles swelling? Be less fat, it seems. Does intermittent fasting work? And exactly how intermittent do they mean? Should I wear a mask? Is this normal? Normal for whom? What’s normal anyway?
Write what you know, they say…
Maybe some yoga would do the trick… or, better still, some glorious new yoga pants… But wait. Maybe if I just tidy up I’ll find the previously glorious yoga pants in the cupboard. Along with the previously glorious shoes, knickers and perfect faceserumcream. Sigh.
Write what you know…
I know it’s almost supper time.
I know it’s not my turn to cook and I’m grateful for adult children.
I know it’s all going to change soon.
I know that if I just applied myself, I could do better.
I know I’m doing my best. But then so is everyone else…
I know that it doesn’t really matter whether it’s a tuning fork or not.
I know I know better than they do, but it still doesn’t stop me believing what they say.
I want to say how much I like this but I’m distracted…