Lost in my notebook
Reflected Desire & update
Hello all, it’s been a while. Sorry about that.
Before we get into the extreme short scene I wrote this week, I thought I’d quickly update you on what I plan for this year.
Spring (April/May) – Release a short story collection. Each one of you is entitled to a free copy, so drop me a message if you’d like one. This collection will be themed around the life transition that takes place after leaving school/university and stepping into adulthood.
Rest of the Year (March to December) – Relaunch regular shorts on here. I can’t commit to every week, but I will compose a new story every month.
Early Next Year (March 26) – Release my new novel.
This week, on my long commute home (Groningen to Haarlem), I found myself with a blank page, lots of time, and no inspiration. So I started looking around for some. Reflected in the black windows, I noticed this woman and began to write.
There’s no way she could tell. Or so I thought, watching her tuck her auburn hair behind her ear time and again. Engrossed in her book, her head leant forward as if each line exuded its own gravity, inevitably losing the tucked strand and allowing it to curl annoyingly into her line of sight.
Ink-black scenes passed by unnoticed, every so often punctured by a cluster or row of streetlights. Rocking from side to side to an unpractised rhythm, I watch her in the reflection of those mirroring windows. Her maroon knitted jumper matches her frostbite cheeks and nose. Delicate hands held open an enormous novel, ring-laden fingers turning pages softly as if they were fragile petals. Every so often, after tucking her hair back in place, she’d look around—at the window and perhaps beyond, focusing on the town quickly disappearing into the opaque night, or down the aisle at other passengers reading, listening, and watching. But however much her eyes wandered, they never looked back.
So I continue to watch, losing myself in her repetition, wondering what I had to do to become a part of it. Surely she had space for me between her distracted glances, head-leaning lines, and hair-tucking habit. I’d not demand much, just a quick grin or a few seconds to rest my hand on her thigh. That’s all I would need, all I’d ask of her.
Check out my debut novel Love, Loss & The View From My Window
