Happy First Official Week of Summer! Sorry that I kind of disappeared off the radar last week. I was in the middle of reading a book for our sister blog dual review and had some serious writer’s block. And then there’s the fact that I was just feeling anti-social, as I tend to do when I feel like I’ve had too much social interaction lately. I told you I’d always be genuine, even when that can reveal sides of me that I don’t necessarily like. But moving on! Let’s talk about wishes.
I once did an interview for the Banbury Herald. I must look it out one of these days, for the biography. Strange chap they sent me. A boy, really. As tall as a man, but with the puppy fat of youth. Awkward in his new suit. The suit was brown and ugly and meant for a much older man. The collar, the cut, the fabric, all wrong. It was the kind of thing a mother might buy for a boy leaving school for his first job, imagining that her child will somehow grow into it. But boys do not leave their boyhood behind when they leave off their school uniform.
There was something in his manner. An intensity. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought, “Aha, what’s he after?”
I’ve nothing against people who love truth. Apart from the fact that they make dull companions. Just so long as they don’t start on about storytelling and honesty, the way some of them do. Naturally that annoys me. But provided they leave me alone, I won’t hurt them.
My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
This was really supposed to be a Wednesday post, but life got in the way as it usually does when you’re an adult and have to do adult things, like take care of yourself and clean up after yourself. Throw in a potty training toddler and the whole mess just escalates. We’ve been working on the potty training thing for a while, but I’ve stepped it into high gear because I’m in my second trimester of pregnancy and I really would like to have one out of diapers before I plop one into them. But I digress.