A play on the radio. I listen to the tail end on Sunday afternoon and then the beginning on Monday morning. A play about Arthur Ransome. (G loved them. Those stories. Does he remember them now? If I asked him would it trigger a response? Another incremental death. Of joy. See it. It’s gone.) The playwright suggests that Ransome hated children, referring to them as rats. And yet, he longed to write stories for them. But they weren’t for them, were they? They were for him. Do we not write for ourselves? To capture something lost? Don’t go, he calls out to his friend’s three children as they board a train bound for Syria. Look after ‘Swallow’ for us, they call out. I’m not a fiction writer, he says to himself. What shall I write? he asks. When will the story come? And it came. It always does.
They are all inside my head. Those ideas. Those buzzings of something like magic. But I am not ready. Not yet. Not just yet. Ransome takes himself to The Lakes. His Russian wife hating them. All that rain. He calls it his workshop. His work room. Get that room first. That room of one’s own and they will come. Those stories will come. I promise.