Of Sensational Serendipity November 25, 2009
Posted by Jen in : A210, Journal, Novel , 24 commentsIt’s funny. I always think I write in my journal on a regular basis. This is, in fact, not true. It never fails to amaze me that quite often a whole month – sometimes many months – have gone by without me jotting down where I am in life. What I think. What I feel. What I think ‘now’ never seems that interesting, you know? But then, when I read back over old entries, it’s like reading the words of a different person. Strangely enough, when I started this journal I didn’t write down the year. Just the date. February 27th. I suppose I thought it would be obvious which year it was. It wasn’t. It took me a while to work out that it was 2006. I was a different person then.
Last week, I was deep in indecision. Head or heart? Heart or head? I read through all your comments on my last post. I pondered my future. I decided that I’d made the right decision to finish my degree and put the writing on hold for a year. I’m sensible like that. And then I changed my mind. I’m fickle like that. On Friday, I was missing writing. Missing it a lot, I mean. No, even more than that. I wrestled and wrangled and scowled a lot. And then serendipity charged in. Did I want a place in the short-story group I’d been grovelling for? Grovelling for over a year, in fact. Too bloomin right I wanted it. And then, an unexpected but lovely comment about some of my photos sealed it. I’ve withdrawn from my OU course. It’s not copping out, I keep trying to convince myself. It’s a positive decision. I want to write. I’ve taken the day off today to make friends with Novel 2 again. I shall shake the characters’ sketchy hands and apologise for neglecting them. I’d somehow become the wrong person over the past few months. But I think the ‘real’ me is back now.
There has also been a new addition to my life. I’m quite cautious about new relationships but he seems lovely and I admit, I’ve fallen for him already. It’s a shame I’m allergic to him and have to mainline anti-histamine to enjoy his whiskery kisses. He likes me to write in bed and is fascinated by my words, especially when smudging them with his nose.
‘D’you want a cat?’ Tweed Clad Colleague bellowed at me down the phone.
‘No, not really,’ I replied in my determined voice. ‘I’m allergic to cats.’
‘No, it’ll be fine. He’s a hardcore farm cat. You’ll never see him.’
Three weeks later, Tommy is stretched out on my pillow. ‘Oh yes,’ he purrs, ‘I used to be a farm cat. It’s a mug’s game. Is it salmon or duck for dinner?’
Ok, that’s enough of the soppy cat talk. I’ve got to go order a new journal. My sporadic entries have meant that it’s taken since February 2006 to fill this one but it’s nearly time to tuck it away. It seems apt that it’ll be time to start a new one soon. Not just a new journal, but a whole new chapter. Life’s a funny old game, isn’t it? I really love it though. I’m purring, just like the cat, today. For lots of reasons.
