Book to the Future

It fills me with shame to admit it, but it’s been nearly a month since my last post. It’s about time I said something…

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For months now, every thought that’s passed through my mind has had a vague shadow-twin lurking in its wake. What was once just the hint of a feeling has become something more tangible. Sinister, even. Occasionally, this strange, twisted thing peeps out from behind the writers’ block that seems to have shifted permanently into place in my mind and I can glimpse it for a moment.

It’s only been recently when that nagging little feeling began to finally express itself in words. Two words, actually. A short and simple whisper: give up. give up. give up.

At first, it was a soft, insistent refrain; a message tapped out gently in the percussion of rain on the roof of my study as I sat in front of my computer with my head in my hands, trying to work out where all the words went.

Give up, the strange little voice murmured in my ear. Give up. Give up.

Even though it’s summer here in Sydney, it’s been raining for weeks. Or what feels like weeks to me. And with every passing day, the constant percussion of the rain against the train window; on my face as I run to catch the bus; on my umbrella as I walk to work – the insistent stammer has gradually become louder and louder. Gieupgiveupgiveup.

Someone broke into my house last week. They jemmied their way through two locked doors while I was sleeping upstairs. They took my laptop. My handbag too. My laptop was filled with photos, e-mails, passwords. Half-written stories; a place where ideas went to die. Inside my bag were the notebooks containing all my review notes, my ideas for future blog posts…even the tentative scribbles that I was hoping – perhaps foolishly – that I could maybe coax into the shape of a novel. So many words, all gone.

I constantly wonder where my notebooks ended up. I’m guessing the thieves took my purse out of my handbag and threw the bag into a dumpster. Sitting on the couch, waiting for the police to come and dust for fingerprints, I also wondered, with a wry grimace, if a dumpster was indeed a fitting resting place for my scribble…

It’s been raining since the burglary. They say it might rain all summer. The whisper of a single voice has become a Greek chorus. Undeniable; insistent. Relentless. Give up. Give up. Give. Up.

The roof of our house started to leak yesterday. I placed a bucket beneath and listened to the infuriating sound of the rain . Drip-drip. Drip-drip. Give-up. Give-up.

Just give up.

For a moment, I did.

~~

But no. Notebooks can be re-written. Holes in the roof can be filled in. My (rented) colander-house will feel safe again soon, and eventually, I might even stop sleeping with the lights on. I might not have posted in a month…but I can always begin again. If you’ll forgive me, that is.

Even if it rains all Christmas, I don’t care. That only gives me an excuse to stay inside and write. To atone for so much wasted time, the hours and hours spent unnecessarily hiding behind my desk at work.

While it might seem that the universe is trying to tell me something…I’m afraid I’m no longer listening. I’m tired of hearing the same refrain everywhere. So I’m replacing it with a little counterpoint of my own invention. It’s not a particularly elegant melody…just a short, sharp expletive, followed by the second-person personal pronoun. Crude, but effective.

I might be defeated, but I am not giving up.

My reviews will be back soon. I am putting together a list of my favourite books I’ve read this year. I am making plans.