My Baby

Photographer unknown, dated between 1900-1909.
I love this photo. I love the baby's innocence.
It has no understanding of the strange picture-taking
ritual that it is undergoing.
My exams are done. I am back home in London.

I'm actually sitting in my brother's room right now - he's got far better WiFi signal! Although it's currently well into the evening, it's still bright outside, and this heatwave that we're in has rendered inside hot and stuffy. Houses here just aren't built to deal with this unfamiliar climate. It's foreign, perhaps in both senses of the word.

I'm alone here. It's just me and my laptop, about to embark again on a formidable writing journey.

However, this time, big changes are in order in the very story this blog was inspired by. For a long time now, I have had an unshakeable sense that there would be a substantial shift away from the direction I had originally planned.  A radical restructuring. As though it were my own personal baby, I've been cradling this story protectively in my arms for many months, reluctant to disturb it, reluctant to chop and change it. That which, in my heart of hearts, I know is so needed, I've been putting off. Until now.

This story still has that essential theme of people changing - the title of this blog was not a mistake after all. But how that theme fits into the story must fundamentally change. The old ideas don't work. I must enter uncharted territory again, seeking a new narrative to tell.

This is like wandering in darkness, in the deepest darkest depths of a dank cavern. Ahead, I see glimmers of light. Behind me, there is nothing but embers of past fires. There is nothing to turn back to. My hands are out in front of me, in case I fall, or ready to grasp something. Something enjoyable and engaging and beautiful.

Always praying,