Even in the face of more pressing matters, people dying close and far away, I would write a story if I could.
I pretty up with phrases, turning four thousand words around, but still I’m lost in my direction.
Last night I brought up from the cellar the book I’d written in three months, now six years old and left alone to wildness in its ways. Again, I cannot tell a story.
My strength, it seems, appears to be revealing bits and spurts. Although, I guess, it is the way we started life. My maternal instincts warped but well intentioned, reluctant to primp and pad and push my children into the world and thus away from me; instead I cling to little vignettes that make me think. Is Spinning then alone my only child?
I’m getting weird again, and every insight is applied to every aspect, every thought, to make the day more treacherous yet more enlightening than it needs to be.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology