Filling the Void
My wife's plan to move out into a new house has stalled because of legal process. It's a frustrating business. I didn't want her to move out and take my sons to live apart from me but since it's going to happen, I want it over with as soon as possible. Living with an intransigent partner is quite stressful, especially as she seems to have gone on strike, leaving me to come home from a full day's work, bath the boys, make bed time snacks, read their books, get them to bed and tell them stories on my own. I would do all of that instinctively, I'm their dad, but I often then have to go clear the kitchen of the debris from supper, sometimes put the washing machine on, write up the boys' homework logs, make myself some supper and take the dog for a walk because my wife does not even take the poor beast out during the day anymore. My wife is out somewhere, at work, she says.
When they've gone, I will begin writing again. I will start the sequel to TWG, plot the basis for the Northern Ireland terrorist story I've had in mind for ten years, and begin a draft for 'A Different Kind of Mountain (about living with MS). Writing is a cathartic activity, albeit a lonely one, which allows the writer to balance their mind and then expand it into different situations, different worlds. The writer meets new characters who develop their story, take them to places they had not anticipated and creates events which were not necessarily planned. Writing can fill the void left in a lonely life.
But I doubt that writing will fill the space created by absent children. No matter how enigmatic my characters may be, they will never hug me when I get home from work. No matter how exciting the scenes that I write may become, they'll never be as much fun as playing with pirate ships on the living room floor, or as challenging as scaling the fort built from sofa cushions. And no matter how loving my heroines may be, they'll never climb on my lap and rest their head on my shoulder and tell me they love me. Nothing will ever fill that void.
When they've gone, I will begin writing again. I will start the sequel to TWG, plot the basis for the Northern Ireland terrorist story I've had in mind for ten years, and begin a draft for 'A Different Kind of Mountain (about living with MS). Writing is a cathartic activity, albeit a lonely one, which allows the writer to balance their mind and then expand it into different situations, different worlds. The writer meets new characters who develop their story, take them to places they had not anticipated and creates events which were not necessarily planned. Writing can fill the void left in a lonely life.
But I doubt that writing will fill the space created by absent children. No matter how enigmatic my characters may be, they will never hug me when I get home from work. No matter how exciting the scenes that I write may become, they'll never be as much fun as playing with pirate ships on the living room floor, or as challenging as scaling the fort built from sofa cushions. And no matter how loving my heroines may be, they'll never climb on my lap and rest their head on my shoulder and tell me they love me. Nothing will ever fill that void.
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