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A story about one writer’s wild adventures
If you’re here because you’re curious to find out what the feck happened since I first published A Dangling Fish, why I’m a little warrior, and why I’m a rebel? It will unfold throughout these pages and posts. You’ll feel very normal and together after reading the f-ups I’ve done. Smiley face.
I hit 40 like a brick wall; bouncing back just as hard
To be clear, I have no issues about my age; some live for a hundred years, others for less than a day – I’m somewhere in between, hopefully, and grateful for every new day. It’s just that when I thought and felt, and was actually for once really trying to settle down, things got quite crazy. I was totally blindsided just before the big four-oh, hurtling me into the said brick wall. The aftermath left me with a real feeling of What The Fu*K? This is happening now, at my age! Unbelievable.
When things feel like they’re coming unglued to such an extent that the pieces required to become whole again might be lost or broken, what do you do? Do you hold on tight as hell or do you simply let go?
During the past five years, having gone headfirst into my forties, I’ve teetered on the edge of survival, survived all sorts of random things: raging storms hurling boulders the size of cars too close to my wild mountainside retreat. Was almost washed off it by torrential rain during a vicious storm. A dangerous bike ride where I got chased by dogs and almost cycled off a derelict bridge that dropped 100-foot into a canyon. But that was nothing.
A bit like The Beach and Into The Wild
When I thought I’d found a safe haven and could finally continue writing the sequel to A Dangling Fish, I met some very strange people in a very strange place which left me with a genuine fear for my life.
My strong body became weak and I got sick
A rare disease almost destroyed my face. I lost over half my body weight and was a beat from death. I wasn’t aware at the time, which is scary. I was taken to the middle of another mountain range inland by someone I thought was a priest (ex-Eastern European military). He was a goat herder who wanted a wife. Slight mistake with the translation of ‘pastor’.
I gained a few pounds from scoffing goats milk and cheese and then left when I had the strength and it was less than 40-degrees. I still look a bit fucked up.
What doesn’t kill you…
Alas, I’m still alive. And I do love life, and I love writing.
What’s bizarre is when I’d finished the first draft of A Dangling Fish, I was already thinking about the sequel and about writing another book; something inspired by the weird things I was finding in the forest and olive groves on the mountain plateau in Spain where I’d previously stayed for a few years when I initially published A Dangling Fish (I’ll write a post about ‘how not to write your first novel’ another day).
But it had a dark twist and I couldn’t write it due to being so isolated, thought I’d freak myself out completely. It remained filed away in the depths of my soul. Until I occupied a mountainside and lived like a wild woman, a warrior.
Finally: A Room of One’s Own
The idea stayed with me. Now I’m back in the UK and (after a year in lockdown in my native hometown) live on a small boat and am tapping the words out. Wow.