Just A Wee Note
Life is kind of hectic at the minute and so somewhere along the way I stopped writing. Somewhere amidst the long journeys to work, pressed into the tired, bodies of others, careening through those noisy streets, I stopped writing. Somewhere in the rush of the 9– 5 (or, as reality would have it, 8:30 – 7:30) that has so very utterly unexpectedly swiftly become my everyday, I stopped writing. Somewhere amidst the rush to pack a bag, brush hair, and teeth, to find all notebooks brought home for marking, and make a bed, drink the oh-so-very-necessary cup of chai and catch a shuttle, I stopped writing.
I. Stopped. Writing.
I'm sorry about that. It's not that there's not words to share, just that I have no time to share them. I tried to publish a poem the other day, just to discover that when I pasted it into blogger from textedit that all the formatting was gone, and I had to rush to my next class and had no time to fix it. One day, perhaps, I'll share that poem. I'm trying to balance being a teacher, a writer and the frequent powercuts leaving us with no wifi (or any electricity for that matter). I'm just trying to find words.
The weather in Hyderabad is at it's most chaotic - sunny days and stormy nights. I'm sleeping better somehow - probably because I'm from Scotland and I'm a child of the rain. Somewhere deep down I think I hoped waking up next to the window, and falling asleep to the gentle lullaby of the rain, would give me something to write about – or, at least, some divine inspiration: a metaphor in the vein of life and rain, seasons and the passing of time. I love falling asleep to the rain, and waking up to feel the heat of the sun on the back of my neck. So, in a way, I suppose – it worked. Here I am: writing.
But writing well? Not-so-much. So often I forget that writing well, writing what is honest and truthful and good, is practice – the pen is a knife, it must be sharpened. And the mind? A muscle, which must be flexed and exercised and toned. I spend most of my days writing – writing about grammar and punctuation and spelling. I'm surrounded by words, sewing other people’s words into English and racking the archives of my mind for simple vocabulary. I do like it. I do. There is a sense of achievement for a writer, walking head held high out of the building at day’s end, as the sun sets a wintry pink on the horizon, that today’s words were good. That today you held language in your hand and said yes.
But my own words? The words I am allowed to hold up and say yes! These are mine! These are my words, good and honest and true. I’m still working on those. Bear with me, won’t you? I’m still trying to figure out how to make eight hours in a classroom a good story. One day it’ll come. I promise.
This weekend I'm off on my travels again - and I have no words for how insanely excited I am. Tonight I'll be with my brothers and sisters again- for the first time in a year. We've never been apart this long in all our lives, so the idea of being reunited again fills my stomach with all kinds of butterflies. What if they're different? I know they won't be - not a day has gone by without a skype call or snapchat or message from them - we're as close as any siblings can be when separated by this many miles. Either way, I have a feeling that around them the words will come no bother.
So this is just a wee note to say hello! how are you? long time no see! Leave me your links - I have many hours in the car to read ahead of me and FINALLY - that means time to read. Tell me all your news and gossip and hopefully the next time we meet I'll be overflowing with words.