Today a new collection of stories dropped
through my letterbox. I tore open the envelope and flipped through the pages
immediately. There was a story inside that caught my eye – it’s title something
a little familiar somehow. I read it without sitting down, almost without breathing.
It was familiar because it was part of a
project this writer and myself had worked on nearly ten years ago. It was all
her own part and not a bit of it mine – the published thing in my hands. But it
also felt like it would not exist if it had not been that we had worked
together on this - and we were in step then, in tune and in time with each other, synchronised. I am pleased that it is in this collection – a part of me is
pleased; but a part of me is something else.
It made me recall the project we’d shared for six months and the easy effort of that time and the enormous promise it held, and I could see from this published thing
that now it will be no more than torn scraps. The piece
that is published and which is in the collection I hold in my hands, it is tantalizing
and incomplete and – for me – a little sad… like a torn bit of cloth that holds
a snatch of pattern, all richly coloured and jeweled, but ultimately a scrap
only and something less than the full bolt of cloth.
I am old enough to have regrets - they should only be had by the old and they should be few - and I regret that this writer and I fell out and I regret that this project is confined to the darkness of history; this torn scrap is a bright and brilliant reminder of what it could be if ever it was unearthed again.