It has been one of those weeks when my plans have been met with laughter by higher forces. While I aimed to achieve a lot more short story writing, I went from fiction writing, straight into reporting on the destruction of trees and foliage along local riverbanks. Not so funny.
As a teenager, I read Kate Adie’s autobiography and dreamed of becoming a war reporter. However, me being me, I didn’t fancy writing the births, deaths, and marriages before progressing up the ladder to ducking grenades and hiding behind tanks while speaking to the camera. I wanted to be writing front-page articles for The Times right away. Thankfully, none of this came to pass. Maturity brought the realisation that war is never something to get intentionally caught up in. Also,at that young age, I didn’t have confidence in my own abilities.
My Friday blog didn’t happen because I have spent the last two days staring in horror at two riverbanks I used to love so much. Developers have stripped one side of both riverbanks bare. This is where I used to pause to try to spot kingfishers or admire swans on the way to visit my mom. I’d take pictures of the rivers to show her, especially in the summer when it was all so green and the lily pads were so pretty. Now it is barren, getting ready for future human occupation.
Instead of writing my short stories, I ended up writing a series of outraged tweets, a blog, and emails to the council. I photographed and videotaped the destruction. It wasn’t until I grabbed a coffee with a friend yesterday morning that I realised I had actually become a reporter (after all these years) by default. Not for a newspaper, but for local people who care deeply about what is happening.
This isn’t to say the short stories haven’t been progressing nicely. Up until Thursday my routine stuck.
Next week (depending on higher forces), I will be back to work, creating imaginary characters rather than worrying about real ones. See you next Friday, she says, and someone up above laughs.
Please subscribe to be kept in Petra Kidd’s loop.
The way it was, the river bank at Trowse before destruction of the right bank took place. This is the way I want to remember it.
You must be logged in to post a comment.