An ordinary day

The painters have been here for four days, and there's more to come. They're in the lounge, in the hall, on the stairs, removing the old paper and plastering. Yesterday, a miracle happened: Peter and I agreed on new wallpaper, easily. It was not our first attempt. The paper may take a month or so to arrive, a breather from the tradies.

Since returning to my study, I've yet to clear my desk. Piles of papers. I don't know what they are.  I need to throw at least 50% away, clear space so that the children will not have to do it.

Two days ago I attended Renee's memorial. After mentioning Nicola Easthope because she couldn't make it, I read out the text Renee sent me when I was struggling with the book, telling me off for not working hard enough. It went down a treat, gales of laughter. Adrienne Jensen told me about the Landfall Press she and others have started. They're doing very well. 

I decided to keep a diary, to write like this every day as often as possible. I have now read two of Ian McEwan's books. He introduces evil into his stories, realistic and creepy. Not what I want, though I believe people tend to underestimate both its presence in our lives and its power. Then read Maggie O'Farrell's book I am, I am, I am. Seventeen brushes with death (Tinder press, 2017). Well written, but doesn't contribute anything, doesn't enlighten or surprise me.

I had been writing up my own. Only five that I can remember. She got there first - and much better! Her early years, before she became ill, resemble mine, desiring to be free, to follow whatever impulse arises, a need for stimulation, for excitement. 

Many criminals have the same urge; one theory claims it lies behind the impetus to offend. In one of McEwan's books, the criminal character displays it, in his case due to Huntington's.

Harold Pinter's poems on death (p. 263 and 221)

Meeting

It is the dead of night,

The long dead look out towards

The new dead

Walking towards them

There is a soft heartbeat 

As the dead embrace 

Those who are long dead

And those of the new dead 

Walking towards them

They cry and they kiss

As they meet again

For the first and last time

  

Death

(Births and Deaths Registration Act 1953)

Where was the dead body found?

Who found the dead body?

Was the dead body dead when found?

How was the dead body found?

Who was the dead body?

Who was the father or daughter or brother

Or uncle or sister or mother or son

Of the dead and abandoned body?

 

Was the body dead when abandoned?

Was the body abandoned?

By whom had it been abandoned?

 

Was the dead body naked or dressed for a journey?

What made you declare the dead body dead?

How well did you know the dead body?

How did you know the dead body was dead?

Did you wash the dead body

Did you close both its eyes

Did you bury the body

Did you leave it abandoned

Did you kiss the dead body

I was careful about the punctuation. Neither poem ends with a full stop.

Dropping like a stone

The book is going through a change of shape. Received a beautifully written 'sermon' (her word) from Renee, my mentor, in response to the latest writing I sent her -

Kia ora Navina, more, more detail, more detail, more detail, write as though your reader knows nothing.  Describe your mother, your sisters, you don’t mention your father.  And if this is your weekly output it's not enough. Not nearly enough. 

I like the idea very much, I feel it’s nearer the heart of the matter, but I need to say that  this is a serious project and it could work extremely well but you must give it your if not whole - at least a large part of - your time and attention.  You need to have an aim when to finish a draft.  You need to set a deadline.  You need to have a weekly output to which you keep. 

You need to write as though it matters intensely that the reader understands this story. You need to write as if someone was trying to stop you and you’re determined to get it finished.  Have a good think about it.  This is not a pastime like embroidery, this has to matter and it has to matter to you enough so that you set aside time, regular time, that it becomes something that you have to do not something you choose to do.  I think you are at the crossroads and only you can make these decisions.  It's like falling in love, you have to drop like a stone into the pool and go with it.  I hope that you do. Aroha, Renée

I am one lucky person to have Renee at my elbow.
I'd be a fool not to follow her advice.


Here we go then...

dropping 

like 

a 

stone 

in 

a

pool 

Photo from Wikipedia, picture taken by Roger McLassus, improved by DemonDeLuxe, Sep 2006, entitled Surface waves of water.

For more about Renee, her writing,  her teaching and her friends, see her blog here, wednesdaybusk.com