We’re halfway into 2021 but I’m not sure how we got here. We huddled together in lockdown, savouring takeaways and the smell of spring, but the rain washed most of it away.
And suddenly we find ourselves in summer. Every day Alexa promises more rain, and every day I stay inside, but no rain comes. Is this a metaphor for my anxiety? The universe is laughing at me, in its wise and loving way. All I can do is try to learn its lessons.
“How is the writing going?” they all ask, and I try my best to explain that I’m still navigating the process. The story is bulging in my skull, aching throbbing burning to be told, but my hands are still familiarising themselves with the tools. The characters dance in my mind, a tender tango of misfits, and I pray I can give them justice.
I love my story and I love my cast, but piecing it all together is like building a giant jigsaw puzzle with no directions and having to treasure-hunt the pieces. Each time I find a piece I pick it up, twist it around in the light, admire its construction and the serendipity of me finding it. Then I begin the intricate task of finding its place.
Once it slots in, that’s when my heart grows wings. But there are many thousand pieces left, and I have to find and study each one. It’s exhilarating and bewildering and I’m honoured that these characters have chosen me to tell their story, but I worry, I do. Which never solves anything. When will I learn?
I cower in my raincoat, remain indoors. And no rain comes.
