Other people’s words about … the things we say
All that talking, years of reading: There was a time I thought that all language might contain something of value, but most of life is flat and boring and the things we say are too. Or maybe it’s that most of life is so much stranger than language is able to make room for, so we say the same dead things and hope maybe the who and how of what is said can make it into what we mean.
From ‘Want‘by Lynn Steger Strong
I’ve been posting less and frequently on my blog over the last few months, I know. And it’s not, as you might think, because I have become more active on other (more instant) social media, though I can see the appeal of posting photographs (excluding selfies) on Instagram.
Spring flowers, Aldinga Scrub, 2021.
In fact my quietness on this blog is more to do with the fact that most of life is so much stranger than language is able to make room for, as Lynn Steger Strong puts it so wonderfully in the passage I’ve quoted above. The Covid-19 pandemic, now entering its third year globally, has left me feeling, in the truest part of me, wordless. I am surviving, for which I am grateful. I am getting on with my life. But I don’t know how to put that into words very well, or at least not in the form of a blog post. I enjoy blogging, and I like my space in the blogosphere, so I hope that this phase will pass. But in the meantime … here I am, not finding the language I need to say what I want to say.
Pathway, Aldinga Scrub, 2022.
Another reason for my quietness on this blog is that I’ve been doing a different kind of writing in my spare time recently, which is to say I’ve started writing fiction again. As I mentioned in my previous post, last year I submitted the manuscript of a middle-grade novel to my agent, who is currently trying to find a publisher for it. (No luck yet.) And now, somehow, I find myself writing a novel for adults. I don’t know whether any of the fiction I’ve written since the beginning of the pandemic will ultimately be publishable, but somehow, entirely unexpectedly, it seems that I’ve found the courage to try again, and because of that very unexpectedness, I’m allowing myself to honour my courage for now and see what happens.
Life continues, albeit quietly and unexpectedly, I suppose is what I’m saying. Sometimes I have the words for it and can compose a blog post about it and sometimes I don’t. But I will keep trying. That’s a promise.
Wordless, 2022.
Lately I’ve been reading …
- I try to be patient, perpetually astonished, forever open to surprise: Emily Alexander interviews seven writers about their day jobs.
- I had a really frightening loneliness that felt fundamental to who I was, like it had maybe been in my body for as long as I’d been alive: Danielle Tcholakian on getting sober and learning to live with yourself.
- The freedom to be happy … restricts human freedom if you are not free to be not happy: Heather Lanier on rearing a child with a disability and the American narrative of happiness that she strives not to employ.
twenty-one words 
I find myself wondering what the world will be like when (presumably) the brunt of this pandemic is over and more importantly, what WE will be like. I feel like we are irrevocably changed, a bit dinged up, and we’ll stumble forth and begin anew, as humans have always done.
I feel the same, Eliza. I am not sure we will ever ‘recover’ from this pandemic, but maybe recovery isn’t what we should be looking for, anyway. Maybe learning from it is more important? Though I myself haven’t suffered any personal losses during the pandemic (fingers crossed), I do feel a sense that my life has changed forever. There is no going back. I’m grateful for some of the changes but grief-stricken by others. You’re right, though. We keep going. That’s what we do.
This is beautiful Bec. Thank you.
No, it’s me who should be thanking you, Ali, for reading my posts and for commenting on them. I’m glad what I wrote resonated with you. Let’s speak soon xoxo