When I first envisaged turning my blog posts into a book about my travels, I massively underestimated the amount of work and time it would take. By about a year and a half after I got back from the original journey, I’d finished my third editing pass through, and began the process of laying it out as a book. That was when I realised that I still had almost 200,000 words – twice what was reasonable for a book of this type.

Around that time, I had a conversation with my artist friend Douglas Jeal about knowing when a piece of creative work is ‘finished’, and the danger of continuing to ‘tweak’ it, a topic which also came up at a meeting of writers which I went to a few days ago. To me it seems there is a difference between a painting or sculpture and a book, which needs a satisfying narrative conclusion, as well as a recognition of that ‘sweet spot’ where nothing more needs to be done.

I couldn’t help thinking that my book didn’t score well on either of those. I had just said a sad farewell to Prague, and moved back in with my ex-husband in the hope that I could nudge him into finally putting the house on the market (which was still not resolved two years after the divorce was granted), so that we could finally draw a line under our marriage, and go our separate ways for good.

While I continued to hack away at the text, I was acutely aware that life was continuing to happen to me, and that a ‘happy ending’ – or even a vaguely positive and upbeat one – still seemed out of my reach…

…to be continued (perhaps)

Blue skies and bright sunshine
lure me into the paths
of bitter darts of cold,
flung into my face
and sapping my body of motion.

Broken blossoms scatter and skitter
along winter-cracked pavements,
crushed like yesterday’s promises.
At least the autumn leaves
can be satisfied in knowing
that they’ve had their time.

Brief patches of shelter
bring moments of balmy reflection
on better times to come,
until the onslaught recommences,
and I recall that springtime
can be the cruellest time –
as someone almost said.

Linda Rushby Saturday 23 March 2024

I don’t often write rhyming verse, but I do like to use alliteraton and slant rhymes.

The Shadow

You cannot see me,
I am an empty space,
a void, a vacuum,
a black hole,
beyond the bounds
of visibility.

A nullity, a negative,
a nothingness,
I slip beneath your notice,
and past the perimeter
of your perceptions.

Linda Rushby 16 April 2023

Bronze plaque on a wooden bench
commemorates a life.

A woman,
born two years after me,
died a quarter century ago.

‘Loving wife and mother,
who loved this place.’

Some of us are blessed with joy,
and some with time.

Linda Rushby 5 April 2023

Bare branches inked
against a pale sky.

Hawk hovers,
then passes over me.

Under the trees,
sounds of birdsong,
earth-smells of leafmould;
rotting remains of
last year’s life
nurturing new generations.

White chalk crumbles
over smooth grey flint,
prized by our ancesters.

Everything is held
in potential.

Linda Rushby 5 April 2023

I hadn’t, although I did actually write two more in the days following the last one I posted – scribbled on a scrap of paper when I was out for a walk while staying at the family holiday cabin in the Surrey Hills. When I got back to the cabin, I found there was a problem with my laptop (which has since resolved itself), and the next day I went to stay at my daughter’s for my birthday/Easter weekend, so I haven’t done any more since – until this morning, when inspiration struck again.

So I thought I’d rescue the scrappy piece of paper from my handbag and type them all up.

I used to have a writer’s head
but when I looked, the muse had fled.

I thought I had a line today,
I tried to chase another one,
but then the first one ran away
and I was left with none.

My brain is locked,
my writing’s blocked.
What else is there to say?

Linda Rushby 4 April 2023

Under those lowering skies,
between those scattered showers,
seeking the truth:
bright patches of colour among dark leaves;
snatches of birdsong among the traffic.

Like a heart waiting for hope.
Like a lost poet, seeking the next word.

Linda Rushby 2 April 2023

You crossed the last bridge
and here you stand.
Nowhere else to go,
and nothing to change
except yourself.

You wanted to know her better,
you thought that was the way
to find some kind of peace,
and reconciliation.

But what you learned did
nothing of the kind.
She is just as stubborn,
and you as confused,
as you always were.

You are both as bad as each other,
you and your own worst enemy.
You cannot change her,
and you cannot love her.

You have crossed the last bridge,
and there’s nowhere else to go.

Linda Rushby April 2023

In fact, I’ve just discovered that it wasn’t yesterday, it was the day before, I didn’t post anything at all yesterday. On the other hand, I have a feeling that I wrote an extra poem last year so maybe it balances out.

I seem to have a problem with integrating my soshul meeja – my last blog post didn’t automatically get shared on Facebook, as it used to (as recently as the previous post from 26 February), but did go automatically on Twitter. Instagram, however, which I’ve been using to post a daily photo since the start of the year, has NOT given me the option to share on Twitter since 10 February, although prior to that it was doing so automatically. If anybody has any idea how I can rectify this, I’d love to know.