Blank Page

 It's hard, isn't it? Difficult, I mean. Staring at a blank page. I'm doing it right now. I've never quite found writing so difficult. The actual physical act of it is easy enough, but these days I don't want to write unless I have something to say that matters.

And that's because of two things: one is the times that we are living in, full of lies and division, brimming over with hate and conflict, ignorance and fear of the other as well as the familiar.

So, what is a writer to do? My writing has gone through many phases, but it's only in the last few years that I've taken myself seriously enough to think I could write something that matters. Hubris is a dangerous thing. In 2021, my literary historical novel 'A Hundred Years to Arras' came out, trumpets blaring for about two weeks. Plenty has been written recently about my publisher, so I won't comment here except to say that I thought it would be my big chance, a stepping stone to other opportunities. It wasn't. But, I can say without fear of being accused of arrogance, that it was a book that almost mattered. Glowing reviews, many of them really personal. I'll never forget the 61-year-old man who messaged me on Facebook to say that he had only finished two books in his life, and mine was one of them. There was also the reader who picked it up at the museum bookshop in Arras itself, and was inspired to take a run to visit the protagonist's grave himself. That protagonist is my second cousin Robert Gooding Henson, on whose real experiences I based my fiction.

Daydreams of winning the Booker Prize didn't materialise, obviously. In fact, I'm not aware of it being entered for any competitions. I found out too late that I could have done that myself. Disheartened but immensely proud of the book, I turned to self-publishing for a couple of years. I put out a short story collection, 'Calendar of Ghosts' in 2023, which has been a steady, if modest, seller, having found a bit of audience and garnering some nice reviews. I followed that up with a historical novella, this time set in Wales in 1910 during the miners' strike, 'A Rock Bled Black'. I've had some lovely feedback from readers, but let's just say it's yet to emerge fully from its underground cave.

I've had a few false starts. I've begun the sequel to 'Calendar of Ghosts'. I've drafted out some ideas for other novels, but where to go next? I can't seem to commit. And I can't seem to find the confidence to pick myself up from disappointment to discharge some energy into that keyboard.

So here I am, staring at that blank page, that screen of unformed words, as if I'm at a crossroads, trying to decide which way to turn next...