A lonely journey, never alone

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Yesterday was my monthly visit to Milton Keynes to see my children, the last time before Christmas and two days before the eldest turns teen. Tomorrow, my son will be legally allowed to have social media accounts, and become a part of humanity’s existential crisis, recorded for future historians. Today could be his last day of relative innocence. Farewell son, see you around…

Lonely Journey

I wrote recently of a girl I’d created in a short story, who’d found herself helping many others, while also having issues of her own. She was frustrated, because while she worked tirelessly and quietly with no recognition, others sought to claim credit for her actions. In that story, she doesn’t find a way out, but one finds her, as everything links up at the end. Sometimes, it can simply be someone walking into a life.

There’s a story out tomorrow, which will only be on this blog and then adapted for The Unfinished Literary Agency, my forthcoming second anthology. It’s also about a girl, who’s looking for something her son once wrote, but which he largely forgot about. My own son wrote part of a story some time ago, then gave it to me and we planned to finish it together. The life of the pre-teen has many distractions, just as his teenage years will, so the story was forgotten. But the original purpose of The Unfinished Literary Agency was to write the stories of others, which they themselves couldn’t. So it seemed fitting that I should finish the story, in which a mother looks for something her son started, to find out what became of it.

If my own mum were to look for things I’d written, she’d be somewhat spoiled for choice. Unlike a lot of the family history I’m writing for my other book, my stories are already out there. And in a family link-up, it was my own son who pointed something out to me yesterday.

The odd vanity search aside, I rarely search for myself online (inside, all the time, but not online). When I do, it’s just to see what people are searching for, besides the obvious (the search terms are varied: LGBTQI, animal sentience, steam punk, psychological writing, atheism, the human condition…). I don’t bother with outdated ‘Search Engine Optimisation’, nor any AdWords, preferring the natural order of Google to take care of things.

I didn’t need to be writing for long, before a simple search for my name (omitting the writer bit) more or less filled Google’s first page of results, simply because of all those who share my name, I’m the most prolific (I do write a lot). In any case, I’m usually logged on to my own Google account, so I see a slightly different screen to the public offering. So I was pleasantly surprised when my eldest pointed this out:

Google Box Screenshot

Apparently, Google has given me a box. Google thinks that anyone searching for my name will most likely be looking for me, so they’ve given me a box, which says I’m an author. I rarely call myself that (I prefer ‘Writer’), but if that’s what Google says, I’m pleased I’ve been given a box. So that was nice.

Whatever my children end up as, they’ve been encouraged to be the best that they can, at that which they enjoy the most, and which gives the most back. They’ll have many shepherds through their years and they’ll guide and inspire others, sometimes without knowing it, in their real and online worlds.

Like the girl in my story, I haven’t found a way, but one found me. It was other people, and in life just as on Google. Sometimes, you realise they were always there. Sometimes, you remember:

“Let’s run!”
“Why?”
“Because one day we won’t be able to.”

Farewell boy, see you around young man.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s