But where have all the writers gone?
‘Where have all the writers gone?!’ she cried, clasping her hands together in despair. Frantically she clicked through the blogosphere, looking for writing.
And here is Nancy on her first outing to the ZOO! See her ribbon? Isn’t she cute! one blog screamed at her.
‘Are you a writer?’ she said hopefully.
The blog scoffed at her. ‘No! I am a MOMMYblogger. Hear me ROAR.’
Hastily she skipped away before the poison pen could destroy her.
Then! I spilled red wine ALL over the carpet and OMG I was SO UPSET. BUT! Now, there are these awesome…
‘Are you a writer?’ she asked timidly, a little scared now from her MOMMYblogger experience, but still hopeful.
‘How dare you!’ screeched the second blog, now a little stained with red wine. ‘Compare ME? To a penniless writer? Of course I’m not a writer! I’m a reviewer. Do you need anything reviewed? I can do it, you just need to send it to me, along with a second sample for me to give away…’
Frantically she pressed her back button, only to be faced with the MOMMYblogger again.
Home! Home! Home! Three times she clicked her home button and luckily, her home page loaded quickly. The relative safety of Google sat looking at her.
One last try she thought. Or maybe two. Surely there are writers out there somewhere?
A third time she clicked.
I’m so lonely. She read. So lonely. The baby isn’t any company and I’m stuck at home all day changing nappies. Didn’t I used to be a human being too? Worthy? Now who am I…
Carefully she asked ‘Are you a writer?’
The blog looked at her sadly. ‘No. I am not a writer. I am merely journaling my days as a mother, so that when my daughter has children she can read it. I am not a writer.’
Sad now, the woman clicked away.
One last try she thought.
And there I stood, surrounded by emptiness, thoughts running through my head…
‘Excuse me.’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t help noticing you. Are you a writer!’
‘Of course I am!’ the blog scoffed. Then carefully ‘why?’
‘Well because I would like to be a writer too.’
The blog clapped it’s hands. ‘OH GOOD! We need more writers here in the blogosphere. Come with me. I’ll show you how to be a writer.’
The woman followed the blog, up hill and down dale, through Google and back out the other side. Finally, they stood in front of a small house. The blog walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened.
‘Oh! It’s you. Come in, come in. Who have you brought? Never mind. We need all the writers we can get.’
The woman followed the two blogs through the house, until they came to a room filled with tiny little people. A baby gate on the door kept them inside. The noise was deafening, nearly a hundred little people clamouring to be heard over one another.
The blog looked at the woman.
‘Take out your writer.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your writer. Take it out!’
The woman didn’t understand. She wanted to be a writer, not get rid of her writer.
‘I don’t understand.’
The blog sighed. ‘Your inner writer. Take it out.’
‘But I don’t know how.’
The blog looked at her sharply. ‘You don’t know how?’
‘No.’
‘Reach into your soul. Inside you will find a little writer. Pull it out. This is the only way to becoming one of us.’
The woman did. Reaching into her soul, she felt around until she could feel her little writer. Tugging, she pulled.
It hurt. Oh how it hurt, but she pulled anyway. If this was the only way, then she was determined to do it too. She felt something inside her give and carefully, she extracted a tiny little caricature of herself.
The blog gasped. ‘Oh the poor little dear! Look at how sick she is. You’ve been neglecting her!’
The woman was taken aback. ‘No I haven’t. I’ve been trying to be a writer.’
‘Oh but you’ve been doing it all wrong and look how badly you’ve messed it up. It’s going to take weeks before you can write anything of your own.’
The woman looked at her little writer sadly.
‘Now, give her to the Nanny.’
‘What?!’
‘Give your writer to the Nanny! She will look after her for you until she is strong and well.’
Carefully, the woman handed her writer over to the Nanny. The Nanny bustled away with the writer curled in her hands.
‘Come and have a cup of tea’ the blog said.
The woman felt empty inside now but she agreed. Seating herself, she peppered the blog with questions.
‘Can I visit?’
‘No. Not for a while. Your writer needs time alone, without you bothering it. It needs to be with other writers.’
‘But I can’t leave her alone! She needs me. It was hard enough to hand her over to the Nanny and walk away. You can’t expect me to go away and not visit.’ Tears streamed down her face. The emptiness inside grew bigger and bigger.
‘What she needs is a group of other writers to play with. She needs our group exercises and to build her trust in writing again. Don’t worry, she will be safe and supported here. We will keep her healthy and strong. We won’t let anyone criticise her.’
The woman sniffed, still not convinced this was the only way to becoming a writer.
‘What do you do here?’
‘Oh everything.’ the blog announced. ‘We do group exercises, we allow your writer to stretch her wings without any criticism, we foster trust and we teach your writer how to network.’
‘But what about the technical skills of writing? Do you teach those?’
‘Of course not!’ the blog scoffed. ‘Who needs technical skills when there is a group of supportive writers to watch your back?’
‘I thought you were going to teach her how to be a writer!’
‘We are. Don’t fuss your pretty little head. When she comes back to you, she will be able to write.’
‘Will it be any good though? The writing?’
The blog looked at the woman, hard. ‘Good is subjective though, isn’t it. As long as the other writers think she is good, she will be fine.’
‘You said there were group exercises. What are they?’
‘We give out a topic and all the writers are expected to write on that topic. Then we run around and read everyone’s writing and make sure that the writers have done it properly, to our standards.’
‘I think I read some of those, a few weeks back. They all sounded the same.’
The woman sipped at her cup of tea and looked at the blog. Her advertising had started to flash a little faster now with all these questions.
‘Good. That’s how they know they’re doing it right.’
‘But I don’t want my writer to sound like other writers.’
‘I’m sorry. This is the only way to become a writer and not be merely a blogger.’ The blog’s advertising flashed dangerously now.
The woman finished the last of her tea and stood up.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be part of this. I want to be my own writer, not be part of your giant writer.’
The blog looked shocked. ‘Without us, you’ll be just a blogger!’
The woman thought about it. ‘I think I can handle that.’ She walked across the hall to the room filled with other people’s writers. In the corner, her’s sat huddled alone. Stepping over the gate, she rushed over to it and picked it up.
‘Poor little pet’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry, I should have left you how you were. You don’t want to sound like everyone else, do you.’ Her writer shook her head sadly.
The woman stepped back over the gate, careful not to crush anyone else’s writer. Stepping lightly now, she left the house with the writers and the blogs clamouring after her.
‘The cheek! To think she can get along without us!’
She smiled before tucking her writer back into her soul. Her empty feeling dissipated and she could almost feel her writer snuggle back down.
Ideas rushed into her head as she made her way home again and she thought about paragraphs she could write when she got home. She knew now where all the writers had gone and she didn’t want to be one of them.
A faint cry of ‘You’re doing it ALL WRONG!’ floated to her ears.
She didn’t care. Right or wrong, she was doing this her way.
No one else mattered.
Shatter
Give me your dark and twisted. Share with me your secrets. Bare your soul and bleed before me. Paint the world with your pain. Tear open your chest and show me how it feels. Drive your hands inside the cavity and feel for your heartbeat. Is it still there?
I don’t want to.
Show me how you hurt. Point to the pain and we’ll see how it looks. I’ll provide you with a microscope and we can examine it together. We can paw through the blood, looking for pieces left intact. We will sort you and break you. We can put you together backwards again. You will be broken, but you will be perfect.
Go away.
Dredge your insides for emotion. Bite upon it, making the pain greater. Does it still hurt? What about if I poke here? Show me. Splash it across the screen for the world to read. Scream your agony, screech your grief. Make the world hurt like you hurt.
I can’t do this.
Share with me your pain. Let me search through your insides looking for ways to make you shatter. Let me hurt you. You’ll feel better. I promise.
Moonlight.
I’m escaping.
I walk, slowly and carefully. I think about where I will place each foot, moving consciously. I tread lightly on the outside of each foot.
I walk barefoot through the grass. Dew clings to my feet and the stars sit lightly above my head. The moon is almost full and I walk underneath it, ghostlike.
The silence is palpable out here. Like the dark, it coats everything. I make no noise as I walk to the fenceline and stand, watching the sky. The glow from the city sits above the horizon and in the distance, a truck roars past. I hear my front door click as my partner steps outside for a cigarette.
With that click I come back to myself and I realise how cold I am. Stepping gingerly I head back to the house.
What were you doing?
Nothing. Just watching.
Oh. It’s cold out here.
Yes. I’m going inside now.
I love you.
I love you too.
The door clicks behind me and I step inside.
Heartsore
Three months ago, to the day, she died.
We sat in the room, a group of strong women and vowed not to leave until it was over. We drew strength from each other, in the being there together. We sat and loved the one of us who was failing, who wouldn’t make it to the evening. My brother and uncle joined us and added to our strength.
Her breathing, which had been laboured all day, got raspier and she pulled the oxygen mask off her face. Her hands flailed a little, unsure of her place anymore. We stood around her, an armoured guard; a support team. Our backs to the world we circled her and kept her safe. Holding hands we showed her that it was safe to leave us; that we would be okay in her absence. We lied of course, but that is what you do when someone is dying. You tell them what they need to hear to be at peace.
She turned towards her mother and looking at her, she stopped breathing. Collectively we breathed out together.
Her eyes glazed over and we said stupid things
It’s over
Peaceful
No more pain
as our eyes dripped tears and we knew that we were lying to ourselves, to each other.
***
Mum and I told her we loved her, shortly before she drew her last breath. I will be forever grateful for that, along with the hours preceding when I sat holding her hand.
It was not an easy goodbye. Goodbyes rarely are.
Searchable
Somewhere, a bot trawls this site. Deeming it not spam, a little switch is flicked and suddenly I’m searchable. My name, linked to my writing, out there on the internet.
I imagine old school friends randomly Googling for me and pulling up this site. What would they think? But then, maybe I’m the only one who Googles for people to see what shows up.
I remind myself to breathe, this is what I wanted. A personal side of the professional me. A declaration that I am a writer. This is what I do, I write.
***
Sitting down at my laptop, I open my word document and sit down to write. Two sentences in, my daughter asks for food and my son gets himself stuck under the futon. I press save and sighing, I close my laptop. Working with the children around is impossible.
I put my computer away and grab some food. Laying down on the floor we all eat together. The children take turns clambering over me and soon I’m covered in sticky kisses and drool.
It’s not the work I’d intending on doing, but it’s my job nonetheless. I enjoy this as much as I enjoy the silence of writing.
***
Blearily I stumble out of bed, summoned by the baby’s cries. I trip over imaginary things as I walk into his bedroom and lift him up for a feed. He snuggles down into my arms and snuffles at my breast before settling in for a feed. His eyes shut almost instantly and I contort myself towards the nightlight to read my watch.
5.30am
I should stay awake and work while the children are sleeping.
I really should.
My head drops forwards and I doze lightly while he feeds. I’m still incredibly tired.
The baby snuffles and sighs deeply waking me up. His feed finished I put him back down and leave the room.
Stumbling again, I head back to bed. The warmth of my partner envelopes me as I snuggle into his back. He mumbles a little and then lets me rest my cold feet against his legs. He’s nice like that when he’s asleep. For a moment, I regret that I’m not working. Only for a moment though.
My pillows are soft and soon my feet will defrost. Giving into my need for more rest, I let sleep claim me.
Soon both children will be awake and I can attempt to work through breakfast.
Up until the point when they need me and I end up on the floor, covered in sticky kisses and drool.
Again.
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