My silent valentine

Trusting in the one-day-at-a-time ripple effect. Pledging allegiances and being faithful.

‘Whatever you may have heard, self-publishing is not a short-cut to anything’ — Zoe Winters.

I cycled into town early. It seemed a good way to clear my head. I’m very happy in our house-nest up on the hill. But for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ll burst into tears even at an unexpected pause in conversation. Anyone’s conversation, not just my own.

It could be hormonal but I’m wondering if the trigger is a level of confusion encountered by jumping into the self-publishing world. It’s full of unanswered questions and open-ended sentences. I used to think photos need to be seen and not just fade on an SD card, so we jumped, pictures and I, from camera to world wide web. It was a fun jump too. Now the latest move, putting digital photos onto paper and bound into a book feels like one hell of a giant leap.

Book, I think it is your fault and I have just found this quote that backs it up,

‘Whatever you may have heard, self-publishing is not a short-cut to anything, except maybe insanity…it’s hard work and you don’t wake up one morning, suddenly good at it. You have to work for that’ — Zoe Winters.

But I’m not going to use this quote to provide an excuse to give up. No. This helps me understand. It’s empathy. It’s clarity.

Book, you are far more beautiful than I imagined you’d be! I think that was a shock. But then again, being my baby, I’m bound to see you with a halo hovering above my favourite pages. The quiet life of the writer, the walker, the bird-song-listener is suddenly clashing with business on-line as usual. Every procedure, code, contact is online before it can get real.

So here I sit, in the triangular corner of an odd-shaped cafe near the train station and by the window. I’ve taken myself away from my desk. I was told by husband to take the day off. It’s busy and bustling in here while I ponder my next move. Book and I are in a chess game of a thousand moves. Hopefully not stalemate.

A window is open, and I can hear the traffic. I watch drivers, one in a car, one in a van with fluorescent writing slammed like a swear word along its side. One has just cheekily nipped out of a side-street to filter onto the main road in front of the orange van who really was not in the mood to let anyone in. His boss is breathing down his back, every delivery against the clock. They both shout at each other, I can just tell, even through the glass; their eyes fixed straight above steering wheels, facing the oncoming traffic with whitened knuckles. Angry mouths. The lips of insult are hard. The words are lost. There are no smiles, no soft syllables. I’m reminded of that tragic Ken Roach film about delivery guys that nearly got me into tears. Yep, my tears are never that far below the surface.

In front of me, in this noisy place, where the coffee grinder is deafening, even in the corner where I sit, are two people signing. They catch my eye because everybody else is in an early-morning-trance, slowly waking while staring into their cup or at a screen. The pair are right in front of the coffee machine, both wearing wine-red sweatshirts and they are totally immersed in their chat. It is not noisy for them.

I’ve always thought sign language is a miracle, like brail too. The woman’s nails are long and perfectly painted and they turn, glitter and dance in the air every time she answers him. Her fingers point and flicker up at the ceiling or out the window towards the sky. Her hair is long and tied tight, up on top of her head, like a dancer’s. He has one elbow hovering above the table holding out his hand, open, flat and sloping downwards towards her face while he uses his other hand and fingers to tap his soft palm.

They smile at each other. Maybe they are words or maybe letters. Is he spelling something? I am so nosey. I’m eavesdropping a silent conversation full of flowers. It’s Valentines Day. Maybe he is declaring his love. Yes. That will do it. I have a soft spot for romance. Don’t we all?

I will never know. I can romanticise all I like. Their conversation is a secret. It’s one plus for all their struggle to be heard.

There’s always a plus, in everything. Always.

Book, I can’t leave you in a box. Somehow, I will get you on a shelf where somebody is looking for you, without having met you, where you will calm somebody’s day. Somebody who needs a breather and some reminder of nature’s beauty and the exquisite power of sunrise.

‘I promise you. You will be able to eavesdrop to your heart’s content. You will find a home. Many homes. Maybe even a hundred and eight homes. You’ve been described as a book from heaven. Now that took my breath away. Maybe it isn’t just me who sees your true colours.

‘Book, I will give it my best shot. Just let me get into a rhythm. We’ll get along just fine. Be patient with me.

Let’s take it one day at a time’.

……………………………….

Footnote: Luckily for me after two wobbly days I’m feeling much better. Shedding a tear, cycle rides and tea with girlfriends have all helped. Ideas on how to promote my book are starting to fill my notebook. I meet two women who have just opened a bookshop in town on Tuesday. I have an exhibition and a slide show in the diary. How to promote it here on SubStack is another via. There’s more to come.

I hope you’ve had a good week. I’ll leave you with a note that made me smile:

And for those of you who love photography here’s a challenge for this week from Patrik with Nordic Lens.

Photo Challenge - Reflection