As I write my stomach is churning and I feel a sense like some kind of impending trauma is afoot…… I wish I knew why.
Now, I’m not sure what other writers do, but I have hundreds of scraps of paper, napkins (hello 1990s pick up scene) and half filled note books with ideas, starts of stories, starts of poems, descriptions of characters and indignant responses to situations which I have chosen to scrawl down rather than verbalise … I then keep these pieces of paper/napkin/envelopes etc.. becuase they are naturally too precious to dispose of. My desk is therefore a mess, so I am writing at the dining table, using my mobile phone rather than my laptop – and totally disregarding the precious napkins which hold all of my most inspire starts!
I started a story a little while ago and lost it, but after a rather deep and extended conversations with a dear friend last night who pointed out many of my shortcomings (the man was right) and by doing so has assisted me in developing some new self are strategies, and inspired me to write some more. As such, I spent a portion of today searching through old writing folders on my computer, whilst binging on apple crumble (I paint a sexy picture don’t I?) and after rereading this paragraph decided I would see if I couldn’t finish it off.
Here is the very first preview of my new story – it’s working title is Ugly Sexy Love.
I hope you like it.
“There is something which is both beautiful and ugly, both disgusting, yet strangely acceptable about the relationships we conduct. The way we look at each other and treat one another should be evolving… to become open, civilised and pain free. You know, like thermomixes, like hair dressers appointments and cosmetic surgery, but instead, we hide our completely unsterile, unacceptably harmful and toxic relationships behind white curtains, cucumber eye-masks, and a complete and utter denial that anything untoward ever occurs.
My life is like this you know…. by day I am so smart, and so together…. and by night I chow down on canned mushroom soup, while my thermomix looks on and judges me silently from the corner. I am watching TV, avoiding my research, and waiting for him to call me, to message me, to offer me far less than I am actually worth. As my eyes flicker from the TV screen, to my mobile, and I wonder if I have any ice cream and if I should bother shaving my legs, my mind drifts to the blades I keep stashed in my drawer, and the pain killers in the bathroom. I really hope he calls.”