Category: on the tree swing

A year in bookclub

My name is Lucy Barton
The Forty Rules of Love
Go, Went, Gone
Onyx & Crate
Too Much Happiness
Down Under: Travels in a Sunburned Country
The Rosie Project
Foreign Soil
Grief is the thing with feathers
The Hundred Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared

On not being able to write

Ever since I founded the factory, I’ve always been busy doing something. Over the years there have been ups and downs, but no matter what else has happened in my life, I’ve been squirreling around my workshop. But the past few weeks have been so different. I’ve just been sitting around, watching youtube videos, scrolling through facebook, rearranging entries in my address book, running errands and finding reasons not to be at home. Occasionally I’ve given it another try, but I just end up staring at a blank screen for an indiscriminate amount of time. It feels like all the things I’m passionate about have been stuffed in a pretty little jar on the window sill, the lid screwed on tight. So what do you do, when you ain’t got no flow? I wish I had an easy answer to that question, some magical ingredient that you can sprinkle around like fairy dust and that will transform everything. But there isn’t. You just have to wait until the wind changes. But what if it won’t, you ask? What if it won’t change? That question I can answer. For as the wise Heraclites said, the only thing that is constant is change. So don’t despair, for nothing remains the same.

A year in bookclub

The Penguin Lessons.
Hold Still.
Who Am I? And If So, Why So Many?
We are all completely besides ourselves.
The Fault in Our Stars.
The Siege of Krishnapur.
Sarah’s Key.
Flight Behavior.
A Death In The Family: My struggle.
May We Be Forgiven.

The spaces in between

To write one needs empty time. Vast open spaces so that your thoughts may arrive from far away places, like white gulls landing on the tranquil water of the sea after the waves have quieted down. Between two jobs, training, the people I love, news feeds to scroll down, old wounds and daily worries, I have found it difficult lately. I live a modest life in my little beach house, away from the busyness of the city, shopping centers, and smartphones – and yet I struggle sometimes. This morning, however, something changed. On a whim I swept my day clean of social obligations and headed out through the flower-filled meadows, taking the long route through the dunes to the sea. When I reached the beach, I looked down and noticed a clivers stuck to my sweatpants. Climbing up from my ankle to my knee like an ivy, clinging to me as we made our way over the warm sand towards the indigo horizon. As I watched her dancing in the wind, I realised that I need to keep trying. That it is up to me to create spaces, to keep still and listen as the world marches on. Because there are stories waiting to be told…