I lay on my back with a sheet laid claustrophobically over
my face. An area cut out of it over my right eye, which comically had a bandage
stuck above it with an arrow pointing downwards. I didn’t feel a thing, the
surgeon was excellent, and I’m enormously grateful for the wonderful NHS.
Privileged to receive such great care. But still, I lay there in the dazzle,
watched dark shapes flicker like birds of prey above me,
listened to the buzz of, presumably, a tiny saw, and I mostly wondered about torture
scenes. The spy always seems to be strapped to a chair and then beaten up a bit
and electrocuted. He can scream in a way that shows he’s enduring great pain,
then leap to his feet shortly afterwards and kill everyone, walking away
possibly bruised but essentially unscarred. Lay him on a table, do what that
brilliant lady was doing to me, only without the anaesthetic, see how well he
copes with that.
In other news in this eventful week, I’m shortlisted for the
Bristol Short Story prize. Very pleased. I do love the short story, the
challenge of opening a door into a world and leading the reader in, then having
that world vanish after a few thousand words but trying to make it linger in
the reader’s mind, trying to leave them still half behind the door, still
tangled in the lives you’ve created. Most writers don’t get much encouragement,
so it’s nice when it comes along. Also won a Northern Writers’ Award earlier
this year, another very encouraging, and very practically helpful thing. It’s
allowed me to focus on completing a draft of my YA novel, The Impossible. Writing fiction, writing TV pitches, teaching
writing – feeling fortunate.
