Fiction

We sat in the not so sunny sun and talked about my working and the juggling of it. I have so much I want to do. Always have. He helps. He helps me find out what I’m trying to avoid. And I am. Because it is hard. And I don’t know what to do. Or what it is meant to be. And for whom. It’s all these infernal questions that derail me. And yet I know that really all I need do is start. Just start. There is power in the beginning of something, Goethe said. I listened to Andrew Rissik’s play A Man Alone yesterday with the excellent Ronald Pickup as Tremayne. Such beautiful writing. ‘I can’t seem to invent anything,’ says Moore, his childhood friend, admitting that he can’t write fiction, ‘or make something up.’ And then there was Tremayne himself musing about love as ‘a curios and rather crooked emotion.’ I filch words from it, scribbling them down in between stitches like ‘maladroit’.

Once I’ve finished the commission I shall get down to it. I shall. I shall. And she mentioned the wasp story too. That could be sent out there. Why not? Why not try?

My dreams were a muddle of events. In one we were travelling to China or at least I remember a border control of sorts. H. my travelling companion had forgotten his documents. They were very forgiving allowing him to go back for them and giving me, for safe-keeping, the plastic holders in which to put them. I remember feeling for them in my pocket. Yes, there they are, quite safe.

We sat in the late afternoon sun for half an hour after supper. Just perfect.

I’ve letters to write before I begin to sew. Chop chop.