I was lucky enough to go down to Cornwall for half term. It’s trite, but Gillan Cove really is my spiritual home (here are some pictures). Like Ibiza, another place I have lived and loved. Both places appear in the novel I am writing, unless I split the books in two and write a series, but at the moment I am paralysed by perfectionism so to be honest a second draft of anything might be good just now. Chat GPT is suggesting all sorts of things which are genuinely helpful, and I have perhaps fooled myself into thinking it is a guardian angel. I am sure novels will appear (as they have already) about how people make ‘real’ friends with AI.
On the route west I was chatting on what’s app to my old school friends and something triggered my memory about a house play we did in 1997, nearly three decades ago, called Whale Music. It was written by the late, great Anthony Minghella and is worth looking up. I played Stella, and on purchasing the manuscript I sat and read it in astonishment. Everything comes full circle. I remembered myself as a 17 year old woman recounting the lines, but really not understanding much about what they meant. The issues in the play are issues I think about so much today. Choices, consequences, mental health, female relationships. Here is a poster for it.
On the announcement of Frederick Forsyth’s death, a literary titan in my eyes, I downloaded his autobiography. Two days after his passing, it was eerie to read his reflections on his extraordinary life and how everything came for him, good and bad, one after the other. He said it wasn’t going to be long before he met his maker, and dedicated the book to his sons, saying he hoped he had been a good enough Dad. Have a read about him here.
Broke, Forsyth took a gamble and wrote The Day of the Jackal. That went pretty well for him. He must have burst through his perfectionism. There was no Scrivener, Grammarly and nice cafes to write in back then. No writing courses and coaches to keep signing up to, in the vein hope a manuscript will simply appear. I imagine him with a type writer churning out words, chucking lots away. He talks in his memoir about needing long periods of solitude, about being an outsider, looking in, and how this suited him, being an only child. I think I am the latter (an outsider who never feels they fit in) but have very little of the former right now, and have to surrender on a daily basis the wonders of family life and how they are just not conducive to getting much writing done. It’s not perfect, but I do a bit, and writing this post, again my first one since March, despite a few drafts here and there, is trying to take another route rather than letting Dick burst through my cerebral highway carriage and steal my joy. This post needs editing, it’s not perfect, but if it sits in my out tray it won’t go out because very soon two little people will appear who will need my attention and the day will start. I will never get these years back with my girls, and actually, it is amazing to be a mother having tried for so many years and eventually having twins with IVF nearly six years ago. Yesterday one of my girls had her first ukulele lesson and the look on her face – that of pure joy and wonder and how pressing the strings makes different sounds, and how the beautiful and talented teacher, Ella, sang Pink Pony Club for her and did the chords, is one I shall never forget. This brilliant song and the wonderful Chappell Roan (see below) will remind me of the early years of driving my girls to school, fighting in the back, blasting out the tune, them stopping the arguing to sing along. Music is the greatest panacea and I hope it gives my girls what is has given me – good memories and some peace in my head.
I think I remembered Whale Music because I have a school reunion on Saturday. It is a BYO picnic in Hyde Park and I am nervous. We used to do these picnics when we were teenagers, swilling vodka from a bottle and behaving badly. Because kids can be cruel, I was once ‘de invited’ to a picnic but went anyway with my then boyfriend, and stood, as an outsider looking in (there’s hope for me yet Freddie) from a little distance in the park as everyone looked like they were having a great time.
I feel I need to crash diet, get some Botox, look perfect. Can I get a flatter stomach in two days? I wonder if any of the other attendees are feeling the same. I need to look like my life is in order. I have dark hair now, it was blonde back then. I haven’t had Botox and twins have haggered me. How much am I going to give away about my failings as a human being, wife, mother, keeper or loser of money, not being where I want to be in my career, seeing if others have the same thing, wishing I had taken their path, feeling regret and angst on the train home, and getting a seratonin bump when I fantasize about how ‘everything needs to now change.’ Everything can be perfect from tomorrow, right?
Jessica Drake - OCD / Anxiety Psychotherapist 