Sometimes, all it can take to start writing is the beginning of a sentence. I do it all the time for the children in my class; tell them what they’re writing about and give them some sentence openings to get them started. It’s a support for the less able, which is what I’m feeling about my writing at the moment.
For the many years in which I’ve been trying to write, I have read brilliant, okay and downright rubbish books, and yet my own still go unpublished. So I can relate to those children in my class who need constant adult support, who find themselves confused and at a loss when faced with an empty page and some vague instructions to write a story. Where to begin? Who should my characters be? Where is it taking place? Even once these things have been established, inevitably using people and places familiar to the child, the idea of where to begin is a difficult one. Even just giving a child the beginning of a sentence – ‘One day there lived a…’ – can give them that little push they require to get going. Admittedly, for some children they copy the opening and then turn to you again, unsure of what the next word is and perhaps they will become the people of the world who never feel the urge to write a story.
There are one or two in my class who never need an opening, never need that support of starting to write. I suppose they may well become the famous authors of the future; always certain of themselves and never struggling to find just the right way to begin. I envy their easy writing, where each word isn’t fretted and frowned over, where they write for the love of writing and the words flow onto the page in a well-rounded, imaginative story.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever become that kind of writer.
*
I have chosen an unfinished sentence from the list in the book and will write for five minutes (okay, maybe more if I want to finish what I’m writing!).
The last thing I wanted to do that day was…
…go to the market. The sky was overcast, the heavy grey clouds promising drenching rain and miserableness. Inside I had an open fire, a mug of tea and a good book. No contest, really.
But Sally insisted I go with her. She’s been on such a good food-kick lately, buying only the best ingredients and cooking up impressive-sounding, but ultimately not-as-good-as-she’d-hoped dishes from all manner of Internet sources. I wasn’t complaining about the meals, mind. Cooking isn’t my thing, so when someone else offers I’m never likely to say no. Which is why I felt like I had to accompany Sal. It would have been ungrateful not to.
We arrived when the trading was at its height, people calling and bustling and generally doing market-like things. I’d wrapped up warmly, as it was November, with my hat, scarves and gloves pulled on over my big parka, but my nose was cold and starting to run. I felt downright miserable but was trying not to let it show.
Sally immediately headed off, searching for some exotic meats and herbs for her next culinary adventure. I milled around slowly, hugging my arms to myself and trying not to bash into people as they moved about.
It was as I was negotiating a woman with an irritatingly loud voice and a gigantic double pushchair that took up most of the walkway that I saw it. And him. A small stall with no fancy covering and just a couple of items placed on top, behind which a young man stood, fingers resting lightly on the tabletop and a gentle smile on his face as he regarded the people passing. He wore a pristine white apron over a shirt and jeans, his black hair neatly combed, his face freshly shaven. I couldn’t quite see what he was selling, but they appeared to be jars of something. No-one was paying any attention to what he was selling but he didn’t seem bothered.
It was as I was staring, curious, that the man turned his head quickly and looked directly at me. The movement was so sudden I physically tried to back away, entangling myself in the wheels of that blasted double pushchair and receiving an outraged yet haughty glare from the woman with the irritatingly loud voice and an insistence that I “remove myself instantly”.
I obliged and found my balance, looking again towards the near-empty stall and the young man. But he was gone. Confused, I pushed through the crowd and approached the table he had stood behind. There was nothing there now, no jars, no apron, no young man. I spun in a slow circle, scanning the moving people in vain. I turned again to the empty counter, except this time I noticed it wasn’t empty. Tucked in a corner was one of the young man’s jars. I snatched it up, eager to find out what he had been selling. It occurred to me that his stall had previously been full and, having sold virtually everything, he had decided to collect up what remained and go home.
I caught sight of the jar’s label and sucked in my breath. There, written in a curling script was my name. My name. I couldn’t conceive how that should be. I knew I hadn’t met the young man before, nor had Sally said my name in his hearing as we hadn’t been anywhere near his stall together. It was a mystery that made my heart beat faster and a slight sweat break out under my arms.
I turned the jar over in my hands, realising I enjoyed the feel of its weight. It was octagonal and green in colour, obscuring the contents, with a normal metal lid that was sealed correctly. I spent a couple of moments pressing the middle of the lid and delighting in hearing the popping sound it made. As I played, I heard someone call to me and caught a glimpse of Sal out of the corner of my eye, coming thought the throng of people. I knew I didn’t want to open it here, that whatever was inside was meant for me alone, so I slid it into my pocket and turned to greet her.
We went home together, Sally exclaiming over her purchases and describing to me all the dishes she was going to make. I replied vaguely, my whole mind taken up with the jar that lay, mysterious and heavy, in my parka pocket. Finally we got back to our shared house and I excused myself, running up to my room, pulling the jar from my pocket and flinging the coat onto the floor. It was suddenly very important that I open the jar and find out what was inside.
The lid popped with tha exciting feeling of promise that all new jars hold. Slowly I unscrewed the lid and removed it, peering into the green depths. To my immense disappointment it was empty. I held the jar away from me and regarded it, feeling its weight and scrutinising it. It didn’t feel as though there should be nothing inside. Indeed, the weight suggested it was heavy with contents and my hand and my eyes couldn’t make their senses match.
Disappointed, I was ready to discard the jar and join Sal in the kitchen when I suddenly felt myself pulled forwards. My head and torso were tipping towards the jar, moved by some unknown force. I cried out as a pain passed across my chest, my head, my waist, excruciating in its violence.
It felt like hours before the pain stopped, but was surely not so long. When I managed to focus my conscience and my gaze back to my room I noticed a body at my feet. I screamed until a realisation made my stop.
It was my body.
I screamed again and again, but no-one came running as my essence floated there, seeing myself dead on the floor, hand clasped around an empty green jar with my name on. My eyes were staring, my mouth opened wide in a silent scream that I was making now in my body-less form.
Eventually, Sal came to call me for dinner, found my body, joined my screams with her own. My essence left that place then, my energy spent, and I went searching for that young man.
Every day for the rest of eternity I searched.
(Tasks are taken from The Five-Minute Writer by Margret Geraghty.)
Dreaming of Writing... 