We’re walking over Bramshill, up the long steepness before you reach the top. The ground is hard and greasy, clay-red, strewn with skinny black slugs the quarter length of my finger. It’s not quite eight, and foggy, and the dogs circle close to me, checking I’m still on the path they expect.
I am not on the path that I expect. I seem to keep climbing up a slimy bank and sliding back, over and over, again and again.
I read a blog last night, by Antonia Honeywell, the writer of ‘The Ship’. She wrote about failure, of difficult second books, and she said, ‘And I looked at my narrowing life and wondered what I’d done to it.’ That line has sat on my mind all night, it was the last thing I thought about in the dark, and the first thing I remembered when I got out of bed.
I feel that way, too. An awful narrowing of once-wide horizons. So many people have re-tweeted Antonia’s blog, that it must be a common thing, this hemming in, this reduction. We wonder if we’ve caused it ourselves, somehow stymied our own potential. Built our own walls.
I know Antonia has four children, and I have two; two beautiful, silky teenagers, who scrape clean the inside of my head with a spoon. We all have some version of this – the job, the family, the dogs – when does it all conspire to constrict, and suffocate?
I realise I’m angry as I slog up the hill, and I stop when I reach the top, the gap in the hedge. The roll of the valley is hidden in the fog. Either side of me, the blackthorn is darkly wet.
I am angry with myself. The narrowness is in my mind, something I’ve created as an excuse for not writing the best I can. The opportunities are there, but I haven’t been seeing them, I’ve been fussing instead, about too much money-work, grubby house, un-done homework. Those things have always been there, always will be there, but I can choose to change things. I can tell people no, sorry, can’t help, I’m writing, I’m making stories and reading books and I’m pushing at the walls I thought were there and are not.
I didn’t realise they were not, until I read Antonia’s blog.
Ahead are the bulky shadows of ash trees. In my heart is starting a thud of determination, and I push back my hood, look around me in the fog. I touch my finger to a drop of rain caught on the blackthorn. Then another, and another.
I don’t need to get up that bank to join that path. I can follow the path I’m already on. I don’t need to see it to know the direction it goes in, I just need to follow it, one step after the other, knowing that it will take me the way I need to go.
I whistle the dogs, yoddle their silly nicknames into the fog, then start to walk.
Antonia’s blog is here: http://www.antoniahoneywell.com/when-is-the-right-time-to-write-about-failure/