Author, editor, attempter of this thing called life. Social anxiety warrior. Re-Connections, a collection of short stories, published with Ocelot Press, 15/10/2025.
You wake to hear it hammering on the window like an unwelcome guest.
You think, “Oh dear, I won’t be able to hang the washing outside.”
You don’t think, “Oh good, it’s providing water that enables me to do the washing.”
Perhaps you should.
ark7:20
Only three cars on the whole floor.
I get out, click the button. The beep echoes.
I walk to the trolleys in the semi-dark, trying to ignore the smell, or at least to pretend I don’t recognise it.
8:30
Same semi-dark area.
I guide a heavy trolley between the cars to the boot of mine.
I smell car fumes. It seems better than what I smelled before.
Lettuce leaves, still green, no longer edible.
Grapefruit peel, still yellow.
Orange peel, still orange.
Broccoli stalk, still green.
Onion peel, still identifiable.
What lies underneath is no longer identifiable. It has metamorphosed into something else – something that can be useful again.
What about us? We have no use below ground, but we can make a huge difference above. Most of us don’t. What a shame!
Six steps descend to the small, empty café. Four round tables with chairs. Large windows through which diners can watch passers by and passers by can watch diners. One long table with a high bench, covered with a material that’s patterned and colourful – reds, greens. The counter is bare except for a coffee machine and a till.
“Small stones,” she says. “It’s a lovely way of helping you to notice things around you, but I notice too much.”
Eyes drooping.
Brain wandering.
Trying to write, but…..
Clothes hanging on clothes horse on balcony.
Trousers, shirts, socks, pants, sheets.
Greens, blues, whites, blacks, reds.
Gently swaying as they dry.
What if it was raining? Would they get wet?
No, silly. If it was raining, they wouldn’t be there.
But what if…
My head is still reeling. I finished reading Nicola Morgan’s Wasted this morning. Usually, I don’t have a chance to stay in bed and read in the morning, but today, by chance (or luck), I had the opportunity and decided to take it. I didn’t toss a coin to decide; I just did what I wanted because I could.
Much has been said about chance, luck and predicting the future with reference to this brilliant story. I don’t think so much has been said about guilt, but this is also an important factor. Jack has found a method of coping with his feeling of guilt over an event that occurred when he was very young. His method of leaving decisions to chance, of tossing a coin, is unhealthy and only hides the guilt which shouldn’t be there at all. He couldn’t have known what his actions would cause.
We’ve probably all felt guilty at some time. I know I have. I’ve even felt guilty about decisions that have caused harm only to me. But now I realise that I couldn’t possibly have known what my decisions would cause.
Wasted is a YA book, which perhaps explains why I was able to read it so quickly. But I suspect I’ll be thinking about it for a long time, and that’s a sign of a good book.
| Dawn: | Black clouds frame a black tree growing out of the building. |
| Day: | The tree is green. The tree is behind the building. The clouds have gone. They probably weren’t black, anyway. |
New bed
New blanket
New sheet
New curtains
New flowers
New TV
New day
New year
New me
A new year is dawning. Time to make changes.
I think I’ll be tweaking the appearance of my blog some more. I think it could be better, but at least it’s different.
What else is going to change? I was pleased to see I didn’t blog about new year resolutions last year, so I don’t have to blog about non-fulfilment of them. Next year, I won’t be so lucky because I’m going to list my resolutions here. What will I do if I forget to carry them out? Well… I could always delete this post later. Shh – don’t tell anyone.
This blog (as is now confirmed at the top of this page) is about writing and social anxiety, so my resolutions are, too.
My writing resolutions
My SA resolutions
Well, I’ve written them. I hope I can keep them up for a year.
Miriam Drori, Author