Writing My Way into Dark Corners

A good friend has advocated writing as a means of therapy – of turning the searchlight on ourselves to light up those hidden corners we are reluctant to think about. It will be a kind of spring cleaning, she implies, that will rid my soul of clutter and cobwebs and enable me to go forward into the future with confidence and clear purpose.

 

There are no cobwebs in my house. I am certain of this. Every inch, every corner, every tile in the bathroom, every corner of the oven is scrubbed, polished, de-cobwebbed to the satisfaction of the new owner who has now taken up residence. My home is in store, cleaned, packed and polished and waiting patiently (and somewhat expensively) to be directed by its owner to a new start.

 

There may, however, be a few cobwebs lurking in the corners of my soul. Which way then shall I direct the searchlight of my writing in order to identify the muddled thinking, secret fears, the self doubt and the inertia that crouch there, unseen and undisturbed, limiting my potential, spoiling my creativity and shackling me to the past when what is needed at this present time is a bold, confident stride into the future?

 

I am playing for time. I am procrastinating. I will begin my probing search into the dark corners, one at a time. A week of house-hunting lies behind me – in a familiar, well-loved setting. I have visited and re-visited; I have scoured the internet properties; I have visited those same houses with a mix of shock, horror and delight! They say the camera never lies – well, I can assure you that in the hands of an estate agent it does! Careful perusal of the details gives you information and, with years of experience behind you (a little of it spent working in an estate agent’s office), it is easy to spot the omissions, the jargon and the deliberate ambiguities. But nothing can prepare you for the insidious deceptions of the wide-angled lens or the glossy images it produces of tiny, cramped kitchens, doors falling off hinges, peeling metal gutters and rising damp. Only a hands-on approach reveals that.

 

So I am harbouring disappointment in the dark corners of my soul. I have been lied to and misled. But what you see is what you get – not what you read on the internet. Not all the news is bad. I have seen some lovely homes, lovingly cared for by responsible owners, tastefully decorated, thoughtfully improved. Only the fatal flaw spoils these dream houses. And there always is one. Have you noticed that? The rooms are light and spacious, the kitchen is just my choice, there is a downstairs loo and an upstairs bathroom... and the flaw? The garden is damp, narrow, overlooked by trees and faces east. There will be no sun in my garden except whilst I am still in bed. Yet another dream house is perfect in every way – small, but perfect – the owners have thought of everything. But there is no garden. The perfect seaside location, a quiet country road – but no garden. The agents forgot to mention that.

 

I am walking a tightrope between adventure and security. I have found some possibilities – not perfect, it is true – but possibilities. Now another secret fear lurks: is it all too familiar? I have lived here before. It is easy to find my way around. I have favourite picnic spots, favourite walks, handy DIY stores, much-loved teashops and cosy inns. It makes me feel secure, safe, ‘at home’. But where is the adventure in that?

 

This week I am standing on new ground. I have driven ‘north’. North is different from south – that’s why it is an adventure. But I am lacking that cosy sense of belonging. The architecture is different; the countryside is hilly, driving is tricky. The beaches are grey and wild; the villages are grey and no-nonsense, no frills, no chocolate box thatched cottages. The differences do not end there – the people are different too. How long will it take to achieve that sense of belonging? Will it ever come? Or will I die a lonely old woman in a tumbledown cottage (amidst stunning countryside) that no-one ever visits? That is my fear speaking – the fear that lurks in these dark corners I am writing my way into. I must confront it and discover what it is and decide if I need to give in to its persistent whining.

 

What kind of person am I and which bits can I change? Do I want to change? I am not a city person; that much I know. Living the urban life for so many years, I have tired of its tarmacked streets, its graffiti, the ugly back streets, rundown shopping streets and jostling crowds. I have wearied of its noise and the feeling of being alone in a crowd, shopping amongst people that I do not recognise. I long for community, neighbours who know my name, green fields and peaceful country lanes with birdsong in the air. But maybe I am not a village dweller either. Deprive me of retail therapy (in modest amounts), visits to local cinema, theatre, art gallery and library and I shall be a dull, unhappy person, especially in winter. The bright lights are not for me, but neither is a constant diet of wet fields and muddy footpaths. So I am balancing on another tightrope, it seems, between city and country. It appears that I am scurrying in the direction of the perfect small market town location, surrounded by peaceful, green countryside and within striking distance of the sea.

 

For the sea has always charmed me: traditional seaside, with wide sandy bays, or small hidden coves, wheeling gulls, ice cream stands and the smell of seaweed. To be separated from my beloved sea would be a fate hard to bear. I am a seaside person. I love to feel the breeze in my face and the sun on my back as I stride out along the prom.

 

But I am deviating from my dark corners. These things I already know; they are clear to me. But there is muddle and self doubt here which refuses to allow these diverse impulses and desires to be resolved into a clear plan of action. I am afraid that what I want cannot be found. It requires a lot of luck to find this complex combination of circumstances at a price I can afford and I am not sure I am a lucky person. I know there are some that are; they live the enviable lives that I am dreaming of. But here’s the darkness in my soul – my doubt that I am one of those lucky people.

 

I have seen something here. My friend was right. The searchlight attached to my pen has illuminated something I did not know before. I am afraid I am not a lucky person. But luck can be made and it is most often achieved by those who have confidence in themselves to go out and look for it. Some of us are going to be lucky in life – why should it not be me? Why not? I will take my courage in both hands and continue my search for a new life that will make me happy and fulfilled, tailor-made to my own rather unusual list of requirements.