You never tell me anything
you used to say.
.
You were right of course
in a sense.
I always struggled to get feelings from my body to my head
then out of my head
via words
into your ears
and your head.
.
More of a thinker than a speaker.
A preference for actions over words.
Pragmatics not emotion.
.
A private person
even to you sometimes.
Too private maybe.
.
A regret.
.
But then one day I wrote a memory down
and showed it to you
and something changed.
.
Or rather
you changed something.
.
You said
it’s beautiful.
You said
It’s honest.
You said
It’s revealing.
.
Why not share it?
You said.
Other people might be glad to read it.
.
I’m not a writer.
But I’ve been surrounded by writers my whole adult life.
.
I spent my days trying to help them
get the best version of what was in their heads
their imaginations
down on paper
into words
then from there to the mouths and bodies of actors
to transmit a story
via action
and feeling
to offer a meaningful live experience
to an audience.
.
I say to our children
use your words.
.
And yet
it had never occurred to me to do the same.
To use my own words
to write.
To tell a story.
To capture feeling.
Never mind share that writing.
Until you encouraged me.
.
A writer friend says
The job of the writer is to communicate something inside their head to the heads of others using symbols.
.
Another writer friend writes
As utterly useless as words are
sometimes they’re all we’ve got.
.
Sometimes they’re all we’ve got.
.
In the theatre
there’s a sign
your show
is bad:
the performers
are having more fun
than the audience.
.
So it is with hobbies I guess.
When you’re an amateur
you’re doing it for the simple pleasure of the act itself.
Amateur from Amator
the Latin for lover.
Amateur not professional.
For love not for money.
.
As such
it has been
a true surprise to hear how much people enjoy reading these words.
.
For
as a complete amateur
initially doing it for the love
or at least with love
to somehow survive
if not quite having fun
then definitely finding some solace
it would only seem logical
that I should be getting more from writing
than others are from reading.
.
But I suppose it hasn’t felt like writing.
It’s not creating.
Nor the search for poetic expression.
.
It’s the pursuit of accuracy.
A record.
A factual description of what has happened.
Continues to happen.
And what that feels like.
.
Boil it down to a concentrate.
.
Chip away at the marble until the statue that was there all along is revealed.
.
Turn the radio dial until the static is gone and you’re left with a pure signal.
A direct line.
From my heart.
To yours.
With others tuning in to listen.
.
I wake now at 5
and write til 6.
It’s the only hour I seem to be able to speak to you.
Before the day begins
and my head is flooded
my body constantly in motion
my precious attention in high demand.
.
I’m grateful it’s Spring.
Summer suggesting it might soon drag it’s sodden self from the depths of rain-filled May days.
.
The first hour then
is spent thinking
and writing
about me
and us
and you
to you.
.
You never tell me anything you used to say.
.
Well
It’s too little
too late
but here I am
with my useless words
all I’ve got
telling you everything.
Previous > On Coping #43: The small things | Next > On Coping #45: There you were
On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer.
It begins in March 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.
On Coping is the story of what happened next.
Thank you for bringing the inside out, George - I love that Imogen helped nudge loose this gift in you which you give to us all in such beautiful abundance… ✨