The Man Who Had Seen Too Much

The Man Who Had Seen Too Much

Our eyes met briefly as he lifted the small cardboard box filled with a couple of TV dinners and some cat food, but it was enough for me to see far more than perhaps a lot of people do.

He’d noticed my solitary purchase sitting on the conveyor belt minutes earlier. “Dinner?” he asked, glancing at my lone block of chocolate. “Absolutely,” I laughed.

He’d attracted my curiosity as I approached the line-up. I hadn’t seen an armed officer for a while and the gun on his right hip stood out. I wondered if he was on a break or about to finish his shift and head home. Do police officers take their guns home with them these days? It seems unlikely. Wouldn’t they be locked up safely at the station somewhere?

These thoughts wandered through my head before and after he jokingly questioned my purchasing choice. There was something about him that intrigued me. He seemed awkward while waiting in line, disconnected somehow but also hyper-aware of his surroundings. He wore long black trousers and a blue business shirt. He was overdressed on a Sunday when compared to everyone else. Yet, he had the look of someone who could fade into the background easily. Nondescript. I guess that’s a good quality to have in his line of work – to not be seen.

His purchases marked him as a single shift worker with a cat. Or perhaps a married shift worker with a cat. I didn’t catch sight of a wedding ring but I know many officers don’t wear one – it’s to prevent giving away personal information when they’re working. This seems reasonable when you consider the kinds of people they have to deal with day in, day out.

It also explained that look before he left. It was the look of a man who had seen too much and was left with a repair bill that was rather exorbitant. I considered what the woman who is with him or would be with him in the future would need to navigate. A man like that would be tough sometimes. Closed. Damaged. There was trauma in those eyes. How do you cope with seeing so much pain and ugliness in the world? How do you avoid that seeping insidiously into other parts of your life? Perhaps it occurs without you being conscious of it. It just becomes part of you, something you carry around and never quite release.

Was it his energy that made him so interesting to me? My gaze had returned to him repeatedly. I could also feel his awareness of me the entire time we stood in line. Did he sense me watching him and that’s why he looked up as he gathered his purchases? Or did he simply want to appreciate me one more time before he left?

I don’t know. But he had the eyes of a man who had seen too much. And the soul of a man who had felt love too little.

#observationalwriting #lucretiaswords #sundayshopping #writing #author

Photo by Kai Oberhäuser on Unsplash

The lessons of Grief and making it through

GriefAround this time last year I had my heart broken by a man I loved with everything in me. When I say ‘broken’, I mean it. My experience with that man literally broke me apart and I completely lost myself in Grief.

I have grieved relationships and people lost from my life before but this time was different. This time Grief took me over and I fell to the bottom of huge pit of despair where I stayed for what seemed like an interminable period. I cried every day for months and months. I raged at the world and at him. I went to places so dark in my mind that I thought I would never make it out alive. Grief was a bitch that would not let me go.

She was with me every moment and, as I writer, my only recourse was to pour my pain onto a page. I wrote 70,000 words between January and May. Then something unexpected happened; the prose turned to poetry. It felt like Grief cracked open this whole new part of me and poetry fell out. It was strange and also so very relentless. Grief was a demanding client. She demanded I write and write even when tired, emotionally spent and physically exhausted. I had to write. It all had to come out.

The muse was my therapist and my words, catharsis. When I read those words now they often seem like they were written by someone else. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes my words impress me and I ask myself, ‘Did I really write that?’ Those words hold an essence and a depth that wasn’t in me 18 months ago. I can thank Grief for that.

She held me close and I held her closer. She defined me and I let her. Then our relationship took an unexpected twist when, after about six months, Grief left me to find another soul to torment. She had penetrated every part of me and her departure left an emptiness behind; a space to be filled by something or, perhaps, someone else.

I didn’t realise she was leaving until after she’d gone. Grief had been my constant companion and influencer. Her occupation of my life was something I dreaded daily but she was also a dragging weight I’d carried willingly for months. Then suddenly, I was free.

I don’t know if I let go of Grief or she let go of me. Maybe it was a combination of both. It felt weird not to have her around. But I couldn’t hold onto her or the pain anymore. I couldn’t stay in that place of torment. It was time to move on.

Some people say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I don’t know about that. All I can say is, although I never, ever want to be hurt like that again, I know the experience showed me parts of myself I didn’t know existed. Grief was a hard taskmaster (okay, a complete bitch) but she taught me a lot about pain, creativity, what I’m capable of (the wonderful and awful, shameful parts) and my ability to just keep going when I’d rather give up completely.

I don’t wish her to visit again. But I am thankful for the lessons Grief taught me because they helped me to become a wiser person, and a stronger writer.

Mothers, Sex and the Generation Gap

Sex baby
‘…Let’s talk about sex, baby

Let’s talk about you and me
Let’s talk about all the good things
And the bad things that may be
Let’s talk about sex
Let’s talk about sex
Let’s talk about sex
Let’s talk about sex

Let’s talk about sex for now to the people at home or in the crowd
It keeps coming up anyhow
Don’t decoy, avoid, or make void the topic
Cuz that ain’t gonna stop it
Now we talk about sex on the radio and video shows
Many will know anything goes
Let’s tell it how it is, and how it could be
How it was, and of course, how it should be…’
Let’s Talk About Sex, Salt ‘n’ Pepa.

Mum has always been very supportive of my writing. She’s the one in my family who asks how it’s going, wants to read my work and encourages me to follow my writing dream (even when the going gets tough).

Last year, I showed her a chapter from the latest draft of my book and she loved it. She said it made her feel emotional and she wanted to cry a little. This was high praise coming from Mum.

Fast forward a year and that draft has morphed and changed into a far more refined version. And Mum’s been supportive the whole time. ‘When do I get to read your book?’ has been her regular refrain followed by, ‘Is it finished yet?’

About a month ago I was finally able to say, ‘Yes, it’s ready enough for you to see it. I’ll email to you.’ Would she like it or hate it, I didn’t know. But it was time.

Four long days crept past with no word from Mum. Was my book complete crap?? My fears started to bubble a little. Surely all was fine. Maybe she was busy and hadn’t read it yet.

Finally, I rang her on another pretext and as the conversation drew to a close she said, ‘By the way, I read your book.’

‘Oh?’ I said. ‘What did you think?’

‘I thought it was very well written,’ she said. ‘But I don’t really think it’s for my generation. And, as your mother, I don’t really want to read about all the men you’ve had sex with.’

Oh. My. God.

‘Mum, you do realise I haven’t slept with all the men I mention in the book. That’s why it’s called The Men I’ve Almost Dated. And besides, even if I had, it wouldn’t actually be many by most people’s standards…for my age.’

‘Well, that’s not always very clear,’ she replied. ‘But I thought it was good and very well written,’ she added hastily.

Awkward!!!

Now, my Mum knew the subject matter of my book before she read it. Lord knows she’s been privy over the years to many of my ridiculous dating and male-related stories. And trust me, there really isn’t much graphic content in my book. But I think  Mum was a little shocked and, as I now look through some of my stories, I guess I can understand why. My writing is pretty open and I tend to say it like it is. If you’re single and you’re dating (or not dating), the subject of sex is going to come up. It is 2015 after all.

But my Mum is 70 years old and from another generation; a generation that definitely wasn’t as open about things as we are today.

When I next saw Mum, she made a point of saying (again) how good she thought my book was and I know she is still really supportive, regardless of the content. But, as I plan its launch for later this year, I’m starting to wonder if I need to include some sort of age-related warning label like, ‘Contains some semi-shocking content and should only be read by people aged 18-60 years.’

Hopefully my second book (planned for early next year) will be a little less shocking for Mum and she’ll feel comfortable handing it out to her friends. For obvious reasons, I’m guessing it’s unlikely she’ll proudly distribute copies of The Men I’ve Almost Dated to her friends in the mostly 60+ age group at her weekly yoga class.

Love you Mum. xo

The Power of a Few Kind Words

Your dreamA few years ago, thanks to a redundancy package, I was getting ready to leave my full-time government job and head off into the unexplored lands that lay beyond. It was my plan to spend the following year writing the first draft of my first book.

I’d been discussing this endeavour with my friend and colleague, Matt, and he was very supportive. He also wanted to write a book and was keen to support someone with a similar dream.

As my last day drew near, he would regularly stop by my desk and ask cheekily, ‘When you are going to send me the link to your blog?’

‘Before I go,’ I’d say. And he would nod, smile and move on.

At that stage, only a few close friends knew about my blog and I wrote under a pseudonym. But in a moment of weakness I’d succumbed to Matt’s questions and agreed to send him the details before I left. And he was not going to let me forget it.

My last day drew ever closer and Matt did not let up. He was determined and I was filled with dread. Matt is a journalist and as such, trained to write professionally. He knows his stuff. I on the other hand am a PR chick. I’ve written about lots of serious issues in my career for all types of publications but I’m not a trained journalist and my blog back then was about ‘frivolous’ issues like dating, men and having no clue about either of those things.

‘Who am I to think I can write?’ I thought to myself. ‘Matt is going to think it’s a complete load of rubbish! He’ll never take me seriously again.’

My last day arrived as did Matt, loitering near my desk once again. We exchanged goodbyes and he reminded me of my promise. ‘I won’t forget,’ I said. And he was gone.

Not long before I closed my computer down for the last time, I sent my blog link to him by email along with some words asking that he not judge it too harshly.

As the email departed from my screen, I felt mortified. I wanted to sink through the floor and hide forever. He was going to think I was completely lame. Oh, the embarrassment.

The next day (my first day of freedom), I got up, turned on my computer and logged into my emails. Matt had already sent me his thoughts on my writing.

I took a deep breath and began to read his words which were along the following lines.

‘Lucretia, I don’t know what all the fuss was about. There’s nothing wrong with your writing. You’re a writer, so write.’

He wrote a few other things that day and his words were incredibly supportive. I was so grateful. Those few sentences helped me to believe I could be taken seriously. His words helped me to take myself seriously. His words were a gift.

Later this year, I will be self-publishing my first book. It’s not highbrow and it’s not revolutionary. But it’s my story and the support of people like Matt over the past few years, has helped me believe that it’s worth putting out there.

Sometimes it’s kind words that can make the difference between following your dream or abandoning hope. So when someone says they believe you can do it, believe them.

And if you don’t have someone like a ‘Matt’ in your world right now, then you should know that I believe you can do it. Your dream is yours, so go for it.

I believe in you.

When the muse calls

poetry 57238I’ve been writing poetry. ‘What?! You, poetry?’ you could be forgiven for exclaiming in shock. It is unexpected and I’m right there with you in the shock department.

The last time I wrote poetry was in high school and I still have some of it in one of my old teenage diaries. That exercise book is filled with the angst and agony of youth. It’s unlikely I would ever show it to anyone because it’s not the quality I’d want to promote now. Nevertheless, it was an honest exploration of where I was at, at the time.

I don’t know if the poetry I am writing these days is any better. It began to appear a little while ago and has, in the last couple of weeks, become a raging torrent determined to be written at every opportunity.

The muse usually arrives in the late night, when I often feel the most creative. Around 10pm the words will begin to arrange themselves in my brain and the rhythm of the language begins. It chugs like the wheels of an old steam train, building momentum and pushing me towards my laptop. I can be in the middle of something else, or desperately tired, but still it demands an expression. And once I give in, and my fingers begin to fly across the keyboard, I have to type and type and type until the poem is done. Some of them are five pages long!? Even when I want them to be done, there is more to come. The rhythm continues until it is spent so on I go until the ending is reached. I cannot pause before; I am not permitted. The muse insists and so I must follow.

Some nights and even during the day (when the muse also makes unexpected appearances), I ask for a moment’s peace. Let me rest, I ask. I’m granted a reprieve for a time but it always returns, demanding more.

The themes are bright and distinct like the colours of a rainbow – passion, love, anger, destruction, madness and redemption, yet they merge at the edges and sometimes all appear within one piece. They wring my emotions from me until I believe there can be none left – I sob, I yell, I smile, I feel anger, joy, love, hope and despair. Yet still there is always more. Like most of my writing it is reflective of my experience. But there is an essence in the work I have not found before. It is another layer of my being unwrapped in rhyme and rhythm. My emotional undoing has undone the strings and poetry has fallen out. How strange.

‘Is there a book in this? Who on earth reads poetry these days anyway?’ I ask myself. Yet the muse does not care for these questions. Instead it (he? she?) demands an opening for its expression and I must heed the call. So the poetry continues sometimes three or four a day, and I must write it.

Is it any good, you might well ask. My answer: I have absolutely no idea. But still it is there to be written and I must write it. It’s a compulsion that keeps me up late and then I sleep late before repeating it all again. I’m writing these very words at 12.43am!

I see the structure of the words and the story they will tell. It’s a brutally honest and confronting one. It’s also a surprise and I worry I’ll lose the trail of thoughts. I worry the muse will disappear and not return, leaving the work unfinished and hanging like a flag at half-mast, never reaching its potential.

But although it may rest for a day or two, the muse always returns with fresh demands. Its rhythm coursing through me as it commands my fingers deep into the night, and the marauding possums romp through the trees outside my window exploring their mysterious dark world, just as I explore the darkest recesses of my mind.

The muse continues.