Wild ponies,

still notice the grass

Hello there Friend,

This morning in the flurry and excitement of waking up to a new government, I came to rest at my desk, a bit dazed, staring at the cork board on the wall in front of me.

And pinned to it, I suddenly saw, was the photo I thought I had mislaid. This photo (above) is of Dad, Mum, my sister Dawn in the denim trousers and me in the brown flares. We’re stood, stopped on a cliff top in the Brecon Beacons. To the modern eye, it is a badly composed picture: none of us are together, we are un-posed and too far away from the lens. Dad is away from us and I can tell, from how my hand is holding my fingers, I am nervous. Looking at it now, I sense deeply, the little me has a desire to bolt.

Eye-lines: Dad is looking at mum, through her and out to sea. Mum is glancing at the floor. Something difficult has been said. My sister and I are dutifully watching Uncle Bob who has called the photo. He was, what was then called, a bachelor. He often holidayed with us and was a fun, playful man who tickled me until I wanted to be sick. Behind us all is a bland Welsh calico sky. It is summer, but it is not a bucket and spade beach day; the jumpers and coats are on. We are ‘on a walk’. I know I feel trapped, wanting a door towards pleasure to open.

Ages ago, when I went digging through my boxes of photos, I had separated this photo from the others. I knew one day, after Lifting Off had been published, I would want to examine this image again. I didn’t know why back then, but often I get a sense of things, like a forecast.

As a child, I hated walking. I would moan and whimper until I was carried. Dad had got a bad back because of this. Often, I was called lazy, but I found it hard to walk - when I was born my hips were turned-in so I became knock-kneed. I attended multiple hospital visits where they strapped me to a table and then stretched out my bones. It wasn’t painful; quite jolly memories of laughing nurses. Still today I like sitting down, maybe, because I used to fall over so much. Back then ‘going on a walk’ was a duty, like tidying a bedroom. I did not notice plants, or flowers, or what Mum called ‘the view’. I was only happy when someone mentioned wild ponies.

"There is no denying the wild horse in us" - Jacob’s Room, 1922 by Virginia Woolf

Uncle Bob told me I didn’t stop crying on that Welsh holiday. But why did I cry? Were things changing? Could I sense an atmosphere, how Dad’s tenderness was vanishing? Was it just so dull? Maybe I knew things weren’t right, or going to be quite as right.

Scrutinising photographs was how I began writing seriously. ‘Write a series of stories based on photos from your life’ was my first ever assignment. It was the year 2000 when I started a correspondence writing course with the Open College of the Arts, part of the Open University. It was my first foray into understanding the power of autobiography. The confessional and true. With a photo there is an exact moment, but then there is the before and the just after to consider. There is also the story of the photographer.

Since writing Lifting Off, and it now being out in the world (it’s sold more than 1000 copies in three weeks, thank you my friends) all the worries about what I thought would happen, all the difficult questionings, the deep probing, the discomfort of exposure, hasn’t occurred.

Last night, I was reading at the Bookseller Crow in conversation with Tom Lee, the writer of a superb memoir about mental illness and the history of UK asylums called The Bullet. We were talking about the difficult process of writing about our families. When we had finished our readings, we opened up the discussion to the audience, so they could ask questions.

“What do you think has changed for you, since writing and then publishing the memoir?” a soft, sweet woman asked from the forth row.

What a good question, I thought. I had been so focused on what I could remember about writing the memoir, I hadn’t registered what I had discovered since it was published.

My first answer was -“I feel writing this book has recalibrated me. I feel changed. The shame has evaporated,” I added.

But then the following words blurted out of me, “I’ve got to love my father again. I’ve got to see him in his own context.” I took a breath. “And just the other day, I said something to my sister. It was the first time I’d ever felt it since he died. “I miss him,’ I said to Dawn. “I miss him.””

In front of this audience, I described how, through writing the memoir I was able to place Dad in his own landscape. And in a flash, in that moment, I remembered the Welsh photo. The odd positioning of us all within the frame. It made such sense now, this was an exact portrait of my family. Dad in his own element, removed, but nearby; I could see the wild horse in him. Mum, me and Dawn close together.

When I arrived home from the bookshop reading, I switched on the TV. In the fridge were some garlicky prawns from M&S I’d bought for a treat. The Tories were getting obliterated. I thought I’d feel more celebratory. Labour was going to win the election, but I was nervous it might not happen. When I woke on the sofa at 2.30 a.m. I could see, while much of the world was zigging towards the hard right, we were zagging left.

Today I listened to Keir Starmer outside 10 Downing Street. He was once a human right’s lawyer and he knows we seek truth, not sound bites. I guess I let myself feel in safe hands as his words are not hollow; they are apposite. This is the landscape I want to live in. This new/old land where words are taken seriously and mean what they say. This is it.

“Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.” - The Rubáiyát by Omar Khayyám

Below are some pictures of recent bright moments. There are signed copies of Lifting Off and In Search of the Missing Eyelash available at Bookseller Crow bookshop, as well as the phenomenal Gays the Word, Review Bookshop in Peckham and Foyles on Charing Cross Road. Plus many more booskhops like Waterstones etc…Thank you.

And lastly, I’d love it if you’d become a paid subscriber. For as little as a fiver a month you can support my future writing endeavours, plus access the V.I.P Velvet room where I post unique readings, short films, stories for just you, my special friends!

Write soon, and write often.

Love,

Karen xx