I am a writer as you may or, very possibly, may not know. A proper published writer of eight novels and some 15 to 20 works of non-fiction. A wordsmith, if you will. But you’re going to have to bear with me for a while because my brain isn’t working quite as it should.
So here’s the situation. For the last few decades, I’ve lived a life of more-or-less unexamined more-or-less content. Lucky me. But I think the ‘unexamined’ bit may be where I went wrong, because the rug has been well and truly pulled out from under me. And by the last person I would ever have suspected. The person I trusted entirely.
At first, in the place where the rug used to be, all I could see was a big black hole. And it looked so dark, so deep and so cold that I wondered if I might fall down it and never escape. But then I realised that there was another way of looking at things. Maybe, once the dust had cleared, underneath the rug, there might be a wooden floor that hadn’t been seen in years … if ever. Maybe, with the care and attention it deserved, that floor could start to look good again. There’ll be splinters, I’m sure, a few repairs, a lot of polishing but I think the floor is basically sound.
So that’s my project. And right here is where I’m going to be writing about it. And after all the work I’m going to be putting in on my floor, I’m not going to let anyone walk all over it or cover it up with a rug again. It’s my floor and it belongs to me! I am henceforth responsible for my own patina.
You did get that the whole floor thing was a metaphor, didn’t you?