‘The Weight’
I write an awful lot about writing in this newsletter, but it occurs to me I rarely share my own creative work.
So, this week, I’d like to highlight an essay that was published in the literary journal Syncopation.
While I trust the writing to speak for itself, there are a few points I’d like to point out:
Interwoven scenes
Narrative shouldn’t plod; memory darts like tiny fish: don’t discount something because ‘it didn’t happen then’. Follow your mind and the reader will follow yours
Imagery
Describing the ordinary should not equal ordinary descriptions, craft the surprising image (“palm fronds rattled skeleton fingers”) and look for unexpected allusions (“Dukes of Hazzard denim”).
Intimacy
Cultivate a relationship with the reader; confide in them. We read personal narratives to learn about ourselves through others, but that only happens when there is trust.
The Weight
May 12, 2024, my husband Chris and I were at a festival in Valencia, Spain, waiting on Brit postpunk band the Editors. Above us, palm fronds rattled skeleton fingers against moonlit clouds, their allure another soured attraction. We’d calculated our arrival: time enough to have a drink and settle in, but not too much waiting. We shuffled in dust, happy as elephants, as we watched changeover—my husband savoring, for once, not being the man in black rushing to plug and position equipment. This was a treat—a concert with no work attached, a rare night among the punters.
Another drink before it starts?
Why not?
Content in a bubble of Cava, we hooted as the band stepped out. Only, it wasn’t the band. It was a rollicking, ramshackle local crew with Kinks haircuts and Dukes of Hazzard denim: as memorable as a plastic carrier bag.
My mood slumped.
Twenty, 30, 40 minutes. Every song sounded the same, none of them good.
No way an opening set is longer than 45 minutes, we consoled each other.
And the band played on.
Finally, after an hour, they collected their applause and slouched off.
It was after 11; after my bedtime. The charms of palm fronds and dust were obliterated. Waste of time. I am neither gracious nor patient when tired and loathe unexpected turns of event. If I hadn’t paid 100 euros for the tickets, I’d have cajoled Chris, who is professionally inured to waiting for musicians, into leaving. Being too skinflint and stubborn to go didn’t stop me carping and moaning as a new set of black-clad stagehands performed their rites.
Sometime after midnight, the stage—empty for an eternity—blazed with blue light.
On my phone, earlier that day, another blast of turquoise: “She really thought it was a girl,” was my sister’s caption. In the photo, Kylie’s blue eyes are Disney Princess-wide; her husband, my nephew Alex, squints at the burst of blue confetti, face split by a lottery winner grin.
On May 8, 1999—my last year as a teen—I’d tiptoed into a hospital room to cradle a wellbundled object that was my newborn nephew. There’s a photo somewhere: my face round, pink and shiny as a child’s; Alex, the swaddled center of the universe.
On May 11, 2024, as Alex stood beside his wife, park grass unfurled behind them like an emerald train while they learned the sex of their unborn child, I was the usual 5,000 miles away.
***
Alex is my older brother’s only child. He was our mother’s first grandchild; our first nephew. His nickname is “the Golden Child.” We are teasing, but not joking. Golden, because everything Alex touches seems to come out right; golden because when it doesn’t, he shrugs, smiles and tries again; golden because he never seems afraid.