A Spell for
Letting Go.
Take a thread…
Knot your thread three times three, the
witch’s number. Knot with your
intent.
Cut it, then bury it far, as deep as you
can, into the earth beneath. Bury
it back to the mother.
There are many spells for letting go…
This is the
opening of one of my stories – a story I love, and believe in. But there are plenty of others I’ve
written over the years that make me think ‘what rubbish!’ So how come they’re still filling
up my ‘bottom drawer’, plus the rest of the chest, as well as half the wardrobe,
and, and, and…? Why can’t I just
get rid of them? Why can’t I
let them go?
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| (Photo courtesy of dp-multimedia ©) |
I’ve been taking
advantage of the dark, wet days of autumn to work on my children’s novel, ready
for my first ‘Golden Egg’ workshop in December. I’ve also been attempting to have a ‘clear out’ of my
work-space, which happens to be my bedroom (yes, I know it shouldn’t be, I
should have a ‘room of my own’ etc., etc.
But this is how things are.)
I’ve been meaning to do this every winter since moving here, which turns
out to be five years ago, now.
Somehow… And of course, I
was supposed to do it before we moved, and the time we moved before that, and
that, and that. But here
they still are – box after box of useless short stories, articles from a
previous lifetime when I also considered non-fiction, a couple of novels. Poems, even. Some are so old that they were written long-hand, then typed
up, three copies, with those little Tippex strips for each tiny correction in
between. Those are from the days
when I swore I’d never change to a computer. (Am I a masochist, or what?)
So what’s the
problem? What stays my hand
between the bedroom and the recycling bin, or better still the fire, from which
there can be no fishing between the cans and plastic to retrieve triumphantly
and carry back ‘home’?
It’s all about the
fatal mistake of having ‘one last look.’
You tell yourself it will only be a tiny peak, or a quick flick –
nothing more. Then, before you
know it, you’re caught – tormented by ‘what ifs’, and ‘maybes’. ‘The theme of this one is actually
quite good. What if I just
change…?’ Or ‘That’s not a
bad plot. Maybe if I…’ And before you know it, they’re back in
their folder, waiting for some mythical future when you’ve got the time and
inclination to revisit them.
Still, there are
some that are beyond hope, beyond repair, no matter how desperately you try to
spin them. So surely there’s no
need for you to hang on to them? Only… Except…
Suddenly you’re seeing a part of yourself in them. Sometimes, it’s straight
autobiography (names changed, but
little else). There’s you, as a
child, scared of your teacher’s hand-puppet. That’s the house you used to live in, your bedroom,
the garden. That setting,
that character is from when you lived in so-and-so.
With other
stories, there’s a muddling of truth and fiction that engages you, forcing you
to question what’s real. Did my
grandmother’s lodger really hold my hand?
Did that strange man hug me in the street? False memories are the stuff of fiction. Are they the stuff of fiction-writers,
too? These are issues that
shouldn’t be thrown away lightly, along with a few faded pages.
Yes, there are
plenty with no visible connection to your own past – a foreign location, a
different age - but you, the author, are still there. Your opinions, perhaps; your beliefs;
your feelings, of course.
If nothing else, your imagination.
Most of all, your imagination.
So your life is
visible on every page - your real
life, but your writing life as well.
It’s mapped out for you.
How you’ve developed (hopefully!);
your experiments with different styles, different voices. At what stage you gave up on a
particular novel, leading you to question ‘why’? When you progressed from that portable typewriter to this
laptop!
With all this
history triggered by a single box-file, is it any wonder, then, that the drawers
and cupboards are still overflowing?
But this time,
it’s different. The orange bags
are outside, waiting for the bin-men;
the fire’s blazing. I guess
it’s partly an age thing – in the same way as I no longer keep on reading a
book I’m not enjoying. But it’s
also because I’m focussed on what I’m doing. I’ve got a writing plan, you could say. There’s my children’s novel, and its
sequel (!); my ‘folk tales’, such
as the one that opens this piece;
my ‘new’ short-stories; the
idea for a novel that’s waiting in the wings. I’ve got enough
to fill the next few years, without wasting time revisiting the past.
And,
surprisingly enough, it’s a good feeling.
I can view it as another part of my writing progression. I can even believe I’ve reached the
million words, that many experts declare to be necessary for good writing. I can tell myself ‘tidy space, tidy
mind.’
Most of all, there’s
an element of catharsis, a satisfaction in finally getting rid of the old, both
in life and work, and moving forward. There’s been no magic spell, but I am definitely feeling the
joy of letting go.
And I’ve got
myself a few empty drawers into the bargain!
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