On Saturday I went to an interesting event at Furness LitFest where two very different writers, Linda Gillard and Brooke Powley, spoke about their work and their writing life. I learned a lot about writing and publishing, but the most significant thing I learned was that I wanted to be the writer sitting at the front, glass of water at hand, pile of books next to me.
There is a flaw in that ambition. Both Linda and Brooke were able to chat in an easy, effortless way, about their craft – but me, I’d have said everything in a couple of minutes. I don’t seem to know how to expand my thoughts, explore them, talk at length. I can do this on paper or on a keyboard, but speaking off the cuff is much harder.
My dream of being the author at the front encounters another problem: a greater dilemma would be deciding what I should wear, probably more difficult than choosing which pages to read from my latest book. My DH wears the first thing he picks out of the wardrobe. I am not like that. I have to admit that I have often put appearance before comfort (sounds like a Shakespeare essay question: appearance and comfort – discuss).
I am like the person at an AA meeting: ‘My name is Dave and I’m an alcoholic.’ This is the equivalent: ‘My name is Rosey and I’m a clothes horse.’ I’ve admitted it, owned it, acknowledged my failing, but unlike reformed alcoholics I don’t want to change. I like spending hours scrolling though online clothes sites. I like finding a new dress and searching for the right tights/shoes/boots to go with it.
It is not nice to have to own up to being over-interested in appearance. It is a reprehensible character trait and implies a lack of depth. A shallow woman cannot be the sort of person who can discuss matters of life or death and well-constructed sentences. I may have to continue sitting at the back of the room, pondering the ultimate goal: how to find the perfect jeans.
