by Rachel Kendall
I’ve forgotten how to write. Suddenly. Spontaneously. I swear it used to just bleed out of me, breathe out. I used to belt it out in operatic high coo coos. When I say suddenly I mean the words, of course, the suddenness of words. The ability, well, that’s been dribbling out of me over the last 8 years. Since the bairn and my head became full of worry over her and she’s worth every moment but sometimes I wonder, how did Anne Sexton do it? Oh, she didn’t. How about Plath? Same. Blyton? She was a tyrant to her own, right? How about that Harry Potter woman? She blurted in a bedsit when baby was sleeping. Sleeping? I don’t recall my baby ever sleeping. At least, that’s how it felt at the time. Still, I should have no excuse, now that she’s 8 and she spends part of her week at her dad’s. Still, though, again. Suddenly, still, it’s quiet and I still find I can’t compose myself. I started studying again just so that I would have some discipline but struggle to write a 6k word essay on a couple of Lars von Trier films. How do I expect to get back into the novel? No, not the one I started in 2005 in Prague. The other one, the one I’ve been mentally writing since the toddler years.
Oh, the TV is on and my peripheral vision has just singled out such a tiny, skinny woman on… what is this shit? Oh, Lethal Weapon. I shall go and turn it off and tune out. Before I do though, I am, right now, so proud to be a Mancunian. The way strangers have rallied and spoken out and pulled through and offered support. It’s the great Manchester 10k run on Sunday. Runners will be wearing a yellow ribbon to respect those affected by Monday’s attack. This is the glue. Everything else is unimportant.