opening for an unwritten story
For maybe five decades, maybe more, I didn’t want my life to be what it was. It was perfectly ordinary but I didn’t want to be in it. I found escape routes from some of it in writing and climbing; I developed a bad memory to deal with the rest. Only now, after I’ve spent a few years in a life I want, do I see what an odd admission that is to make. People seem quite horrified by it; but I wouldn’t want to live among people who aren’t. How do you write about a life like that, legacy of your own poor management of childhood & adolescence, except veiled in concepts such as “haunting”, “navigation failure” or ”behaviour after a disaster”? I wouldn’t know where to begin. Living is the endless discovery that you’re weirder than you thought, & you’ll never retrieve any of it except via the metaphors you’ve had all along. That seems to have been the advantage of genre fiction for me.