Something I have always wanted to do is write. I wrote poetry from a young age and continued into my 20’s. I have been writing this blog for nearly 4 years and in more recent years I have felt like one day I would like to write a book.
After being inspired by a couple of sessions at Brit Mum’s (no it wasn’t all bad) I downloaded Stephen King’s book “On Writing” – part memoirs, part instruction for those who want to write. I’ve really enjoyed reading the book and got inspired to try my hand at writing in the style of a novel.
I’m not proposing this is the start of a novel. This is just me practicing and writing about what I know. I enjoy writing and it’s something that makes me feel good. I would be very grateful to receive feedback on my first foray into this area. Here is my attempt at writing:
She liked walking. She found it helped clear her head of all the annoying thoughts that buzzed around it like a bee stuck in a conservatory, banging endlessly on the windows trying to get out – walking was like opening them wide and letting them flying out into the breeze. As she walked she would take in all the characters that she passed, sucking them in, analysing them, wondering about their lives. Like the 20-somethings waiting at the bus stop in tracksuits or tight jeans, the 50+ smartly dressed women wearing expensive clothes, presumably off shopping for the day, the Gurkhas and their wives on their walks through the park, the smartly dressed people on the train heading into work for the day.
She liked the routine of walking to the station, puffing on her vaporizer as she walked, listening to music on her phone, then jumping on the train, reading her book while it chugged through the countryside, getting off and walking to work, all the time people-watching and wondering about those she watched. But at the same time, she longed for a break from it all – to spend the day under the covers, having a bath, watching TV. There was a constant battle in her mind between keeping going and letting it all slip. Mostly, she managed to keep on going.
Becoming a single mother at 37 had not been in her plan of how her life would be. But it suited her. Mostly. They shared custody of the children – they lived a week with her and then a week with him. They’d managed to make it work well, for the children. She still felt bitter sometimes – blamed her ex-husband and that girl for ruining the life she had – that was only natural. But mostly, she enjoyed being in charge of her own life. She had learnt to cope, had become independent. She had figured out who were her true friends, who would leave when the going got tough, who would stick it out even though things had gotten ugly. She had made new friends. People she couldn’t imagine not having in her life even though she had only known them a few months. If anything, the breakup of her marriage had been the making of her. It had also been the breaking of her but after she had put the pieces back together she had figured out that they had been wrong in the first place, now they fitted so much better.
Sometimes she can’t remember what it was like post-separation. Her life is so different. Good in so many ways. Other times, mostly at night, she is taken back, against her will, to a day out where they were a family, a weekend away, a holiday… back when things were different. She knows that there were bad times and that this change has brought her happiness she didn’t know existed, a freedom she had only dreamed of when she was stuck in a miserable marriage. But she can’t always resist the temptation to submerge herself in self-pity and reminiscence. And sometimes its worse than that. Sometimes, she is consumed with anger that she is left in a little flat in the cheaper part of town while her ex-husband languishes in a 5 bedroom house and yet owes her a significant amount of money from the transfer of equity. Sometimes she feels so broken that the good days seem a world away. But she tries to remain focussed on the present and the future. Although not too far into the future because she can’t see that far ahead and sometimes it takes her everything she has just to get through the day.
So she liked walking. And she liked her train commute. And she liked her job because it gave her a purpose. And she had hope that one day she’d meet someone nice. Someone right. But until then, putting one foot in front of the other was what helped.