How anyone gets anywhere is miracle. How I came to be writing this is a story in itself. Every story has components that work together to make a story alive, make it breathe, make it real. Sometimes, bits of the story are omitted, and the story becomes something else. Not less of a story but it is akin to living with one kidney or one lung. It gets along just fine but there’s more to think about when parts are missing. Once you see that there are missing pieces, you start to wonder whether it matters. What is essential? The who, the where, seem to be redundant organs, winkled out and tossed aside like the appendix or the adenoids to be found at the end, barely a shell and have to be imagined by the implications of the story that has come before.
The who of this story is not important, you can imagine yourself in my place, or not – as you like, some woman or man, however you choose to imagine me. By all means, try to guess by the writing. The where is equally unimportant. So much is assumed of the reader that people who write articles to be read sometimes forget who they’re talking to. Do you see my words on a screen, on paper, in black, in purple, in what font? Where are you? In your bed, at your desk, on a park bench?
Sam came to my house in the city I live in a few days ago. We both live in cities but they are markedly different and seem to be closely in line with each of our personalities. After the initial rush of lust and affection, the talk began. Sam and I can talk for hours about anything we might think of. There is little pressure to provide subjects and we are equally comfortable in silence, each engaged in whatever fancy we might have at that time. In the harsh lights of a Tesco Metro, the idea was broached. Sam’s housemate wanted to start a paper. He needed columns, articles, anything. Would I write? I admit I at first dismissed the idea. No time, too much work, university to deal with, friends, family, drama. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, my brain began to reel out topics on which I could write. My entire weekend besotted with the idea of writing for others to read and enjoy. Yes. Yes, I would write. A few at first, unhopeful, open to rejection, but it would be a start. I would put figurative pen to paper and write. This is how you come to be reading this now.
No one around me seems to know what they want to do. Shall I be a lawyer? A doctor? A teacher? A bum? An actress? A quote that has become a cliché is that the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. Perhaps this is my first step into writing. I hope you have enjoyed it.