Angel Whispers

It's Only Words

One thing I'm able to do more of since moving house is read. Travelling on buses and trains and not living to a timetable frees up more time to get lost in a book, which can only be a good thing.

Presently I'm reading the best seller 'A Boy Made of Blocks.' A well written and engaging book, particularly for those of us familiar with the game Minecraft and the condition known as autism. The author Keith Stuart has a dry sense of humour and the rare skill of describing things in the way any amateur writer strives for. I don't know why, but most of my favourite authors are male, yet the sort of males society would probably describe as being in touch with their feminine side. I think Keith Stuart may be another male writer to add to my list.

I tell people I am loving my new life in Newark and sorting my house to my liking brings me a great deal of pleasure. Travelling, walking, exploring, seeing friends and new places are filling my days with enjoyable activities and people say they are happy I have reached this stage after so much trauma in the past. What I don't dwell on or talk about much are the other feelings that I suspect would travel with me wherever I roamed and are never fully vanquished, but again I suspect there are many who feel the same way after surviving numerous tough rounds with life. Not feelings easily put into words.

Don't you just turn green with envy when someone writes a passage that makes you shiver with empathy and understanding? Sometimes, no matter how eloquent we are or how profound a writer the words we juggle with just don't hack it. I find this happens a lot lately, but this quote from the present novel sums what I mean beautifully.

' Here is a secret about grief. It's kind of an open secret because everyone who has experienced it knows it to be true, but here it is anyway. Grief never really goes away. Time doesn't heal. Not fully. After a while - a few months, a few years maybe grief retreats into the darkest corners of your mind, but it will lurk there indefinitely. It will leak into everything else you do or feel, it will lurch forward when you don't expect it. It will haunt you when you sleep. Time doesn't heal, it cauterises. '

Sometimes words are all we have and I thank the powers that be for those with the talent and skill to sum up the human experience so succinctly and powerfully. God Bless our wonderful writers. I can only hope time will allow me to tell my own story and express my own feelings the best way I can. To touch the souls of those who have suffered loss and offer comfort is surely a worthwhile ambition and one any writer aims for.