I love writing – all communication really. But sometimes itcan feel more like a profession than a vocation. So, in the last few months, Ijoined a local writers’ group who create poetry, short stories, novels-in-progress,developing scripts and memoir

Some are published, some not, and some have no interest inpublication. However, what the members have in common is a passion for thewritten word and an unwavering belief in the creative process. And flowingbetween those two poles like a living current: joy. Returning to a writinggroup is a little like returning to a well of inspiration. I can’t say it hasimproved the quality of my output but it has definitely has a positive effecton my well-being.

Through our various forms of writing we explore and sharecommon themes: what it is to be human, making sense of the world and our placein it, and the gift of imagination given free rein. It feels like play forgrown-ups and if it leads to a published story or a book…that’s just a bonus.

A recent house move saw us packing and unpacking dozens ofboxes of books. By the time we’re done I’ll have returned 50 crate boxes to thelocal supermarket. Many of pour books are now considered vintage because weare; one or two are valuable in their own right, and some books may never beread again but remain on their shelves like honoured guests.

Within the collection are individual volumes, whose coversthat instantly draw me back to a formative time in my life, like a touchstone.Richard Bach’s A Gift of Wings – oftenread on the ferry to Manhattan as I travelled to my slightly less than legaljob in the Big Apple. Irwin Shaw’s GodWas Here But He Left Early – a gift that coincided with a pivotal decision inLondon about which direction my life would take. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes– bought in Coventry when I sneaked off to meet a friend, while working on adata project in the Midlands.

Those three examples are all anthologies of a sort, as arewe. A collection of the stories we tell others (perhaps with a little editingand the occasional flourish), and the ones we don’t tell because they revealtoo much about others or ourselves.

When it boils down to it, we are all a collection ofstories.

I’ve been sifting through my own short stories – the onesfor public consumption, I mean. Some feature in anthologies and some are stillwaiting for the right opportunity. I’ve been thinking about my own anthologyfor a long time and I already have the cover ready. Who knows, I might finallyget around to it in the next few months. We’ve all got a list like that in ourheads – the someday list.

There’s no call to action here. Not a sales call, anyway. Instead,I want to remind you to find the joy in whatever you’re doing, if at all possible.Or find some joy in something else.

And think hard about what you’re carrying through the years – those favourite stories youbring out for friends or strangers, and the ones you tell yourself that shapewho you think you are. Remember, all stories are partly fiction. Even the trueones.

Lastly, consider this a public information announcement toget on with it. Whatever it is. Because not only is there no time like thepresent, individual time is a finite commodity. To quote Pete Wylie from Talking Blues [Story of the Blues Part 2]: “…well, that’s my story and I’msticking to that.”

 

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