What Led Me To Become An Author
What turned me to writing?
I’ve always loved reading. As a child, I devoured books and as an adult, I would take six books from the local library each week. I will read anything, but what puts me off is when I think the quality of the writing is poor. There are some popular authors today who write wonderful stories, but whose command of English isn’t very good.
Although I wrote a lot when I was younger, it was the death of my wife after 48 years of happy marriage that kicked me hard enough to write again.
Initially, I expressed my grief by outlining her illness and death in verse. Reading these poems now, I can follow my gradual adjustment to her death and the healing of the scar that it left in me. Although I have a new partner now and we love each other very much. I still love my wife. For me, it is possible to do this, so long as one of my lovers is no longer here.
Once I started writing again, I have found it hard to stop. Over the last four years, I have written more than a poem each day, on average, as well as a quantity of prose. Some are better than others, of course, but I have my favourites. When I publish a new blog, I will add one poem every time.
This being my first blog on this website, I think it’s appropriate to give you a poem that I wrote anticipating my first Christmas on my own. It was December 2020 and we were all in lockdown. A journalist had written to say how sad it was that those who had lost a partner were having to spend Christmas alone, but my poem made the pretence that my wife Ann was still with me and sharing Christmas, not only with me, but my family via WhatsApp.
I sent this poem to her and she replied that I ought not have done so, as she spent the whole morning in tears! Here it is:
Christmas with(out) Ann
Our children think I’m Christmassing alone
Now that you’ve fled beyond my stretching arms.
They worry that I’ll sit, chew on a bone,
So send me messages with false alarms.
But they don’t understand that you’re still here,
Sitting and listening to my feeble jokes.
Smiling a little, saying “Yes, my dear,”
At humour that would piss off other folks.
I’m making sure that Christmas lunch is good,
With pheasant, not a turkey, for a change.
I’ll cook for both of us. Outstanding food
Presented well, the best I can arrange.
An English sparkling rosé to begin,
With quail eggs and smoked salmon on the side.
And, with the bird, roast tatties, sprouts, a sin
Not to include the lot, just ‘cos you died.
I cannot toast your health, but memory
Is best; those special times we filled with love.
Your presence may be extra sensory,
But that’s enough to fit me like a glove.
And, when the meal is over we shall sit,
Have conversation without needing words.
Feeling at ease, when soothing lamps are lit,
Knowing that we have feasted as do lords.
There’s nothing maudlin in this dreaming on,
But healthy understanding of my loss.
Although your living body may have gone,
Your essence still to me will come across.
