I’m in a bar in our local town, having ‘creative drinks’ with a bunch of local arty types.
To be honest, I didn’t realise there were many arty types in our local town, bar the handful who congregate in their favoured coffee shop… plus a few painters Lizzie knows. But there are a surprising number of people here. Not just visual artists… writers too.
I’m talking to three of the writers, hearing about their projects, waiting for them to ask me about mine (obviously).
Finally… they ask me what I’m currently writing! Thank God! I couldn’t have waited much longer! I tell them all about Stop Telling Me I’m Brave, how it was a book originally, how I’ve now turned it into a blog.
The three writers seem very interested, bless them, and ask pertinent questions.
As I continue talking about the blog, however, the old guilt kicks in. Should I really be posting a blog – a frequently darkly humorous one at that – which talks about my partner Lizzie’s former illness? I look over sheepishly at Lizzie, who’s talking to some other painters by the bar.
‘Lizzie gave me her permission to do the blog, of course,’ I tell the three writers, to make myself feel better. ‘Otherwise I would have binned the whole thing.’
‘Did you ask her when she was too ill and weak to say no?’ says one of the three writers – an American – with a wry smile.
‘Ha ha, yes that’s exactly what I did, talk about cynical!’ I quip back.
We all chuckle. But inside I’m thinking. Shit! Did I?!
Sigh. Something else to worry about.
It’s an hour later and I’m driving back from creative drinks with Lizzie.
‘What did you talk to those three writers about?’ Lizzie asks, as she steers us out of our local town (she’s pretty much stopped drinking, since her illness, and has very kindly become our designated driver – forever).
I tell Lizzie I told the three writers all about my blog.
‘Don’t tell me you told them I’d had cancer?’ sighs Lizzie.
‘Er yes, I did.’
‘Idiot,’ she says.
My guilt intensifies. Lizzie probably wants to close this chapter of her life now… and here I am, turning the whole thing into multiple chapters. A blog and maybe even a proper, finished book eventually. Maybe this isn’t exactly helping her move on.
I tell her about the comment from one of the writers, that I probably asked Lizzie for permission to post the blog when she was too ill and weak to say no.
Lizzie laughs, which assuages my guilt. Slightly.
‘Oh by the way,’ I now say. ‘Er… one of the writers mentioned there’s an open mike event for local authors, as part of the literary festival*. And, er, I’d like to go and do it tomorrow night… and read out part of the blog. What do you think?’
OK. I’m pretty sure reading the blog out at an open mike event is not going to help Lizzie, on the moving on front. But she’s surprisingly positive and encouraging about the whole thing. ‘That’s great!’ she says, ‘you should definitely do it!’
Maybe she’s being kind. Or maybe, as unlikely as it seems, Lizzie still thinks there’s some money to be made from this blog/book thing.
It doesn’t really matter, because – knowing Lizzie – she’ll have completely forgotten about the whole thing within twenty-four hours anyway.
May 2023
*Every year our local town has a literary festival, which seems to feature more television presenters who dabble in writing than actual full-time writers. Nonetheless, the festival does feature this one event for local authors – the open mike evening.
P. D. Clifton 
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