More Coming

There's more coming. Lots I think. I wake up, in my Canadian bedroom in my new Canadian life and the stories are swirling galaxies out to the edges of my mind, forming, floating apart. Always mum and dad, always Invercargill, as many questions and gaps as stories. Fragments and feelings, fleeting bits and pieces of lives bound so inevitably together and yet so clearly random.

The thing I'm still grappling with is the act of writing. The urge, the tide of it, the shame and guilt and fear about it still alive and well. And a gap too, in the why of it. Why write, why want to, why indulge this urge? I feel like a tree that's been hacked back but keeps coming back for more. Can't be stopped. I don't have a handle on the force of it. I think the answer is knowing that it's actually got nothing to do with me. Not personally. Why else am I here anyway? I will write. More. It's coming.