A break.....and a break through?

There are times when I lose my focus, drift away from writing and have those guilty times languishing in front of a movie late at night or a documentary rather than writing; waking in the morning with dark circles and regrets. The past two weeks have been a complete detour. I haven't touched the last assignment re-write and, very unlike me, have only read Nina's (my long suffering tutor) assessment twice.
I began to doubt my resolve to continue; which is strange because the moment my degree is threatened by life, the turmoil of unseen situations or constraints of time I become angry and difficult. My partner and I started our annual two-week break away from the laboratory and office and still the impulse to write did not push its way to the front. Then I got scared.

Yes, I am reading the recommended short stories from Gotham Writers' Workshop Fiction Gallery and loving them...but no impulse. The last assessment seems to block my path to the next piece of writing. I hate the word "block" especially how it links itself to "writers'" in the minds of all of us who do and those who don't.
So we went to Hampton Court Palace, my partners' birthday trip. I could observe, photograph and write about the architecture, paintings, furniture and weight of history but it wasn't that that caught my attention. We had pulled out of Weymouth station at 6.55am with only two others in the carriage with us; the air conditioning/circulation was working and we were regretting leaving coats/fleeces behind. Stop after stop and gradually the seats filled up with commuters, students and families. Before we knew it most of the seats were taken and I was amused by how quiet we all were; reminding me of a Doctor’s waiting room. I slowly became aware of a muted conversation rising from the seats directly across the aisle. My partner sat nearest while I occupied the window; I instantly regretted my snatching of the view as the interior held an opportunity. I leaned forward, glancing at the two men opposite; my partner smiled at my antics knowing that I was listening and watching, pen poised above my notebook, fighting with the rocking of the carriage.

Manicured fingers hold an expensive ballpoint pen as he draws on the 99p Pukka Pad. The suit is expensive, as is the haircut, cufflinks and fake tan; flawless. Half turned in the trains’ seat, angling the pad to his friend; he draws an oval, nothing too accurate, then bisects it and writes a name in the upper part.

“He,” he says tapping the last letter of the name. “Is not up to the job, his vision is limited; he would be more interested in this.” He scribbles in the lower part. His companion is also suited in the same grey colour, wearing a long sleeved polo shirt underneath; he nods. The companion crosses his legs, retrieving his own pad from a satchel hidden on the floor between them; his pen is a fine point BIC. He writes a name on the top line, drawing an arrow forward and then adding three more words followed by the initials of the words and underlining them.

“He,” tapping the pad, “should not be involved in this...” He emphasised the this part, elongating the word into almost a hiss and subtle lifting of his shaved chin. They nod in unison, like displaying cranes.
The carriages rattle and rock crossing the point’s; snippets of their conversation cross the aisle get broken up. There is a screech of metal sliding against metal, and then swaying.

“...this is a potential game- changer....”

“...I can’t get involved here due to my contacts...”

The train settles and we accelerate. I drift forward again, concentrating on listening; casting my ear and excluding other sounds around me. I catch a smile from my partner and pretend to read the underground map on the opposite wall and the “two attractions for the price of one” offers.

“With this,” Cufflinks writes on the pad, arrows out of the bubble and links it into another. “HE wants a piece of the final set up...whatever that will be.” Polo shirt nods, chewing his bottom lip and tapping his pad; I glance at him as he compares his findings with Cufflinks. They talk about the “Europe imperative” and “managing change”, “personality problems” and “ego challenges”.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen welcome to the 6.55 from Weymouth terminating at Waterloo, stopping at.....” the drivers’ voice is easy, blanketing the murmurs of the occupants as he reads through the stations; Cufflinks and Polo shirt huddle closer and the rest of the conversation is lost to me. Woking becomes imminent so we rise to leave.

As I pass, I look down to their pads; there is no danger at being caught, having that uncertain, questioning look from the observed catching the observer. I see that both pads have been started on their first page; bought specially? They are a mass of names, bubbles and arrows pointing at titles, names and initials. Both of them wear aftershave, clouds of it lifting from them in a plume of odour sucked up into the ventilation above. I wonder why I didn’t smell it before, but realise it has been mixed with all the other smells being blended through the train.

I smile to myself as we make our way along the platform. My partner turns – why am I smiling at listening to that management bollocks? I say it was fun, which gets me a blank stare – seriously? No – fun because I felt like listening and watching. A breakthrough, or confirmation that with the summer break and sudden stop, removal of office work pressure and petty annoyances, that the habit and passion for collecting, wondering, speculating has not been derailed.

Torch....

I haven't posted for a while and when I thought about putting something here tonight I thought about my reasons or excuses. I could say the myriad of birthdays, my parents’ 45th wedding anniversary or work but it was my fourth assignment and the tussle I have had with it.
The object was to drag out an old piece, revisit it and bring to bear all the experience and advice from the tutor. I found it hard work. It was a piece I had written a year before for a competition as an object lesson in having the courage to submit it - without expectation of anything coming of it. It was an exercise. So I wrestled, cut, re-wrote and dragged it out to look at it in harsh light. It was hard work, it wasn't creative in the sense that the story was known to me, not an exploration. By the time I submitted it I was exhausted, unsure and strangely worried. I hadn't written in my notebook for weeks, nothing in my diary and nothing here....
Then Nina came back with her assessment and I was deflated; everything she said was true, reasoned and right. Her comments always cut through and get to the nub of the piece and its impression it will have on a reader - and thank god for that! The main comment was that it was a short story burdened with a heavy overcoat – spot on. It’s a comment a couple of tutors have made on previous courses and something I have to battle against.
HOWEVER, the emotional, knackered side of me - my doubting side - was de-motivated. I brooded for a couple of hours, which is part of my process after an assessment has arrived. I emailed Nina about what was wrong and how I felt; had I made a mistake, should I have taken up another story? As usual Nina gave encouragement with a single comment – “Some stories just take a lot of redrafting whilst one searches with a torch for the right way to approach the telling of it. Others seem to flow down onto the page as if they were a gift from the gods.”
In those two sentences, she managed to put everything in context. I am learning and this is one of those stories that I need a torch for.