What I was going to say, a while back

I was going to say that I needed to try out some fiction.

I’ll still do that, but I’ll put here what I had a few days ago—just to see where I was.

I said (had written in handwriting on paper):

‘I need to try out some fiction, no matter how it works out.

‘I have fiction, but I might need what I have now at a later date.

‘Some new fiction—though I may want to add that new fiction to the fiction I already have—at some time.

‘Just try-out stuff, then.


‘I feel as though I haven’t done that for a long time.’

Hmm.  I was just chatting away to myself there, as I frequently do, and I began thinking about the story I might write—while I was still chatting away to myself.

I’m going to dispense with those quotation marks now—those that indicate I’m taking writing from somewhere else and putting it here—but just bear in mind (I’m talking to myself again as much as to anyone else) that this was written before the—altercation—let’s call it that.

But, also, by the time I had written it, on paper, I knew I was going to post it as it was, introductory remarks and the lot, because I found it interesting to see where I’d started, and where I’d ended up—I’m interested in theory.

Also, I subscribe to the idea of beginning a writing project by just writing anything, to get you started—you can then cross out, or dispense with, the beginning bits, which are a warm-up exercise as much as anything, and start where your story actually begins.

However, I think the beginning bits are as interesting as the rest—which is the beginning of an idea for a story—oh, without further ado, I’m just going to give what I wrote for myself, next paragraph on.


If I wanted to write a story, what would I write?

I would have to remain hidden, though I knew I’d be watched, anyway.

It was a cat and mouse game, but just as long as she played her part, she knew the predator would play his.

But I mustn’t stop, mustn’t tarry—carry the candlestick into the other room—there were tallow candles—tallow dips—plenty just yet, though she knew that if she stayed here much longer, she would have to make more.

There was a time when she thought she’d never get away, but long, dark nights were perfect to dream in, and she knew there was a slipway through the woods—a narrow path hardly visible beyond the trees—trees that seemed on the edge of things—deep into the woods, and turn right at Castle Town.

What would she buy there, if she ever reached it?

New furs to provide for her onward journey.

Because she wouldn’t be able to tarry—she would hit the wilderness again almost as soon as she reached civilization.


This—I’ve written something like this before, which I tried to change, and perhaps lost, after all.  I shall seek it out at some point, because I think this is another part of that same story.

I’ll include this as it is—no editing.  I think editing would come later for this, when I’ve found that first piece.

But—a note for myself: she had been alone for a long time, waiting for someone—she had two babies.

But now—she is being watched.  She can wait no longer.  The game will only hold out for so long, she thinks.

This is a ‘Marie’ or ‘Mary’ story—I think I called that character ‘Marie’.

I couldn’t consciously take that first part of the story forward—maybe this is the way to write it, in bits and pieces.


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