I am travelling back from an RSC production of A Christmas Carol. It’s not late but it could be.
I’m listening to my iPod. Loud. The Greatest Showman. Clichéd, yes. Do I care? Not really. You reach an age when impressing others with your music choices ceases to matter.
I’ve not a lot to write today, apart from that my dream is to write like a song; to have the same ability to move people as Stratford theatre.
I write because I want to pick words like great singers pick a perfect note; like children’s chubby fingers pick the last red sweet; like my Mum picks me the bigger jacket potato, because ever after everything I threw at her, she still wants me to be me.
I write because I want to be as precise as stars and as encompassing as the sky which they stud.
I write because I have a story to tell. I don’t know what it is yet, but the words are there. My throat aches with story.
I write because too many others cope with what I have to cope with.
I write because I have been blessed with a strength achievable by anybody who knows what it is to love and be loved.
I write because there is nothing else I will ever give to the world. I cannot sing; dance; act. I will never be one of the world’s great teachers, politicians, scientists. I am too shrewish to be kind; to sarcastic to be profound; too work-focused to be a good friend.
And I write because you read.