WHY I WRITE

Contents to Come

                 Γράφω για να κλέψω τον θάνατο της τελευταίας λέξης.
                 This is why I write; to rob death of the last word.
                         Odysseus Elytis

There have been times, perhaps not as dramatic as the life of a modern-day Odysseus in 20^th century Greece, when writing seemed to be, as with Elytis, the only way to survive and even push back against the strains of my existence. The written word has occasionally been a life raft, a means of managing turbulence and finding a way through life.

That, hand in hand, with reading.

From the cliché ridden poetry of lovelorn youth, to being bowled over that Winston Smith, Orwell`s Everyman, held freedom in his hand in the shape of a book shared with his lover; from abject failure as a beginner teacher to learning from D H Lawrence how his creation Ursula Brangwen fought her way to maturity; from bewilderment as a novice psychotherapist; to seeing how Irving Yalom used the experience of himself in relation his patient, to find the truth. All these people, both imaginary and real, have through the written word been my teachers, enabling me to try out thoughts and daring to add some words of my own. Not least was the attempt to meet through speech the threat of cancer in my blood stream

But writing is a freedom that comes with a price. Some people don’t like it, the writing that is. And it’s hard to remember that this is good.

I console myself with a poem; going back to it like a handhold in the stream to stay where I know I belong, a place that is at least near the shore and not to be swept away.

A story takes me away from the limitations of my life and opens a window on another reality.

Put that against the desire that if only I could allow myself to let go then I would be able to return.

When coming up against a block in my road, i e an apparent inability to write, I remind myself that maybe this itself is significant maybe something to do with my depressive illness. God forbid I should try and escape it with medication; instead I may have to accept to do nothing but continue to write, to make at least a record of these thoughts, even though nothing planned is being produced. Thomas Ogden said that.

So from various phases, of illness and wellness, joy and pain, failure and success, this is a collection, a diary, or perhaps a scrapbook of journeys made over the years where at least I have (usually) had imagination as my ally:

CONTENTS TO COME:

The Children of Gaia; a future history of the species in three glimpses.