No trip to Norfolk. The weekend weather was wild, with buckets of rain and gusting winds. At least today, be that drizzly, happens to be more calm. I worked on a short story, and whilst that came easily, I’m not satisfied with the ending. There is only so much tweaking I can do. I decided to put it aside for a few days, hoping I’ll be inspired. This month, I’ve been reading The Best American Short Stories. Heartened to know, every author had many drafts. That I’m not slogging away alone!
Last year I disposed of over 600 books, all in pristine condition. Some went to the village bazaar, others to students, friends, and colleagues. Books had taken over my home, to such an extent that was more like a library. Sometimes a space, should just be a space. Discussing this with a friend, she would feel uncomfortable if not having every space in her home filled. She collects frogs: ceramic, metal, and glass. There was time when she collected flat irons, before then owls. Every collection has taken over her home.
Apart from books, if I collect anything, that’s water colour paintings. Most are by the artist George Kosinski, some the work of a few local artists. Those have not taken over the walls in my home. I went into a more minimalist trajectory last year. Hired a painter to do major redecorating throughout. I now enjoy new style rooms with a better use of the space. Although clutter is passé, that tends to creep surreptitiously, like the unsuspected villain in a mystery story. My home office has a distinctly disordered corner. A jumble I should attend to, and keep putting off. I had a friend whose home was positively surgical. She was obsessively tidy, uncluttered to an extreme. Her home whilst modern, had no heart. The house seemed eviscerated.
My neighbour Eileen, has tasteful clutter, mostly memorabilia. Her family photographs adorn a corner wall. I always enjoy looking at those. Many are black and white, each one evokes a past era. Every picture has a family story, which I enjoy hearing. I doesn’t matter that I’ve listened to those before. They always seem fresh. Eileen lived through World War Two. She has vivid memories of the London Blitz in 1941. We frequently discuss how, and why, our culture has changed. I’m sure this is a common topic for many people, a peculiarity of a long life, with a tendency to look backwards more than forward.
We all have cherished memories, or otherwise, with a proclivity to reinvent aspects of the past through embellishment. In that respect every person is a storyteller. My latest short story is rooted in childhood. A few aspects are true, most are not. I rarely use first person, in this instance I have. When writing stories, I come home to my richly cluttered inner self.
