the year that ebbed and flowed

Here we are - another year gone.  My final blog post for the year will be my usual reflection on what was, might have been, could have been, should have been, and never was.  Hanging preposition be damned.

Definitely did not achieve my original writing goals this year. On the minus side, the long-form novel writing was stop-start.  On the plus side, my poetry writing ramped up due to an unexpected source of new inspiration.

Just could not bring myself to progress the third and final instalment of the Peitho novel series - the Peithosian Legacy - somehow a few years of pandemic experience put me off immersing myself in a dystopian speculative fiction world for the next eighteen months. That project parked for now.  I will return to it in a few years' time. 

In its place, I started a new novel project - my first piece of contemporary fiction in a while - and ultimately a love story - so definitely an elixir to lift me out of the surrounding global challenges - a world in the story focussed on the perspectives of just a handful of protagonists navigating life. Simpler. Working title - One Way Street.  It has most certainly been an easier story to draft so far - although I had a little setback in late October/November with a health related flair up that made any writing impossible for several weeks.  Am back to it now, with a clear writing goal for 2024 to finish the first draft of the manuscript by this time next year.

I did manage some poetry writing through the year - in part to meet a commitment to an e-publication where I am a contributing writer. (My previous blog entry covers the early release of the first edition of my second volume of poetry - A Gen-X guide to friendship and identity.) The collection comprised those two themes, and the contrast between them was neon bright.

On the first friendship theme, quite unexpectedly, a new connection formed in the last year as part of a mentoring program opened my mind to a steady flow of intense creative spark from the conversations with this mentee. For them, just being. For me, the challenge of understanding the perspective of a younger mind. The potency of my words that flowed freely from that inspiration was such a good feeling that I am ever hopeful our conversations deepen and continue well beyond this year.  

The second identity theme explored darker moments, including a purge of the emotional roller coaster and introverted introspection that came with those long stretches of being housebound because of chief medical officer orders. I did not write as much during those lockdowns in recent years but on the other side of them, once normalcy of transmission resumed in my life, the reflections of reflections spilled onto the page.

It wasn't all smooth sailing with the creative mentee. Mostly I found my expectations on their interest in the mentoring process was set too high to begin with and the year was a gradual slide downwards lowering that bar with every catch up.  It triggered some sadness - following each encounter - but I learned a lot along the way - most importantly why reciprocity made sense with a mentoring arrangement for me but did not make sense in a friendship. Once I recognised there was common interests friendship shaping up between us, I knew the giving did not need to flow in both directions. In contrast, my quarterly mentoring notes captured that mentoring slide with aplomb and culminated in this piece of poetry (not included in the first edition mentioned above) - written on the 20th of September.  This was the moment I let go of all expectations.

Mr Never More
offers a master class in making
never kept empty promises.
Never too much.
Never enough.
Never anticipating the needs of his sage.
Jamais.
Toujours rien.

The nothingness void of a hollow zero.
Always airless.

What is the skeleton bare minimum?
To keep someone of value, worth spades of gold
available as a “go to” for advice?
Willing to give any time ad infinitum, gratis?
The best things in life should be free.
Only for the entitled.
Is this what defines to be
taken for granted?

 Never give up. Drowning.
In the sea of disappointment.

My other source of inspiration over the course of the last year was a higher than 'usual' stream of viewing arts - music, theatre, art, comedy and more - as wide a spectrum as possible. In part, I was making up for missed opportunities during the previous years' lockdowns. In part, I was going on a nostalgia trip and seeing indie musicians from decades past (accepting it was okay to let my mental image of their youthful verve be replaced by grey-haired locks and a little bit more belly fat from a life well-lived).  In part, I wanted to discover new music, theatre and art. (In truth, I have always relished sampling new things - it just makes life better.) 

And discover I did. With a kick start to my creative process that included the resumption of epic dreams remembered. (Unfortunately, the hypnogogic hallucinations - otherwise known as night terrors - have also resumed with a passion.) The weird dreams are a key lifelong source for my creative ideas - there's a short story collection that highlights this fact - Dilecticoma Dreaming.

I am going to keep things simple next year.  A bit of study. A bit of writing. Hanging out with friends. Exploring new ideas. Maybe travel - if I can convince my doctor to sign off on a certificate to get on a long haul flight. Maybe find a new personal trainer and resume a bit more 'activity' beyond my usual low key walking/hiking in places out of mobile range - still in two minds about this one - the hiking always brings me joy. And I really don't respond well to barked instructions - gentler persuasion is far more effective in getting me to do anything. 

Dropping mic. Skibidi.

Bring on 2024.