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Asides

In this earlier post, we might have started something; a few words scribbled onto a page; thoughts and feelings and characters falling into place.

Sitting with those first lines, and where you think they might be going, try any or both of these exercises below. Once again write a line or two that follows on. You might find what you write here changes what you wrote in The Story of Us. Or it might not. Sometimes we have to come at things laterally – we have to scout around in the terrain a bit, to get a sense of the place we’re trying to get to.

The Seed.

In the dark of the under-world, in a world of cold and heavy earths, there sat a seed. It had been good and gold and burnished brown when it had been cupped in the fruiting bud of it’s tree. It had felt itself filling up and fattened by the rainwater and food brought to it, up from the roots, down from the skies.

But down here no one could see its colours.

One day, on a day of storms and fierce winds, that seed fell to earth and was swallowed up. Winter fell on the tree and the sky that had held it, and the seed – for a time – disappeared. …

What happens next?

The Stone.

There was once a stone – a boulder, really – solid and strong and laced with the glitter of quartzite like captured stars. It sat patient and stubborn as the winds and rains of centuries washed it, season after season, sun after sun.

Stones think slowly. They are, after all, stone. It took a thousand years for it to notice at all that it had moved, just a little, from it’s place.

What happens next?

xoxo

Weepy, sad, tired. A lot of us are probably feeling like this.

The fever and the PM’s announcement hit pretty much within an hour of each other, and I’ve been trying to keep my s**t together since then.

A night of tossing and turning, aching limbs, pounding headaches.

Maybe it’s the virus talking, but sometimes I can almost imagine the entire, quaking body of Britain groaning and turning in her sleep.

I wonder what she, and I, will wake up to when this fever-dream has ended.

xoxo

 

People are made of stories.

Stories are the threads that weave between us, knit us together, even the ones that make us cry.

Especially the ones that make us cry.

One day, we’ll share the stories of Tiny Gandalf and the woman who stole a fridge, and of the cosmic bus and the cups of tea, and of a town in the hills where the crows sing.

Stories are important, you see. Keep telling ’em. Keep speaking them until your heart breaks. And then tell the story of that, too.

Because stories are stronger than rock, stronger than heartbreak, stronger even than time itself – so long as you got the breath to tell them.

Keep telling them.

xoxo

 

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