THE WRITER’S LIFE
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I was at my physical prime. Today I lose prime number status as I turn 48. Birthdays aren’t what they used to be, which is somewhat stating the obvious, but there’s not so much to celebrate as you get older. It becomes less an achievement of making another year and of progress, and more a countdown of improbability.
I’m resolutely single (for many reasons, but I don’t see how anyone could live with me when I find it so difficult myself sometimes) and don’t go out much (no-one to go out with), so my opportunities to celebrate are limited, even if anyone else wanted to. Instead, this is one day of the year when I call the shots, when most days I’m dealing with the affairs of others (mainly the young people who still visit, and chiefly the adopted kid sister, Courtney). It’s my chance to be as selfish as all those people, but just for one day.
In my virtual life, I’ve been quite touched by the number of people sending birthday greetings on Facebook, a place which – despite its many faults – still kindles, ignites and stokes friendships with individuals I didn’t in real life. Some types seem to feel more at ease discussing things in a public forum, and I’m one of them. It’s because it’s less personal than a real world physical conversation, which eases my social anxiety. The virtual world has brought me closer to some people than the real world could, through mutual empathy with matters of the mind.
Anyone who visits my real world on any other day, knows to keep a distance on my birthday. There’s sometimes an exception, but that will only be someone who might be passing and whom I’ve chosen to spend time with if they’ve said they need mine. I don’t expect anyone to turn up and I’ll just get on with my day, but knowing someone might show adds a level of jeopardy (improbable though it is).
I’ll probably spend the rest of the day writing, like I should so many other days but for distractions. During my recent hiatus, while my dad was sick and I couldn’t think of much else, I filled several journals as I watched TV (mainly documentaries) and carried them around with me. My life will continue to be fractured as the lives of others progress in my real world, so my next book will most likely be a third collection of short stories, many of which are plotted and scribbled in longhand in those notebooks. Today gives me a chance to set out for myself, everything I want to do next.
My family history book is on hold, mainly through paranoid superstition, as my dad seemed to be in perpetual decline most of the time I was writing it. I’ve stopped, so as not to tempt fate (and he’s got better). I’ll start writing another novel once I’ve got a few new short stories finished, maybe the planned (and imaginatively titled) Cyrus Song II, or perhaps something completely different, from the many notes I made in those journals.
This one day a year reserved as mine, to collect my thoughts, think ahead, and in the company (if any) of my choosing, helps me get through the next year. I’ll be a prime number again in 2023 and a lot could happen between now and then. I only have to look at the last five years to know that’s true.
It’s improbable, but I might yet pen a best-seller (I may have done so already, and people just need to pick up the book). But I’ll keep writing anyway, probably into the night and probably in solitude.
I found myself in a place I never realised I wanted to be, around an imaginary birthday cake. Even if I hadn’t done everything I was supposed to with my own life, I could have another go. I felt like the living memory of my future self. Thoughts can be remembered or forgotten, so I wrote mine down.
(Simon Fry, Cyrus Song)