I suffer from yet another little phenomenon or quirk. I forget I’ve written shit. I find documents and read them, pondering, ‘Did I write this? Really? It’s not half-bad.’
Does this happen to you?
I’m not sure how others file or keep their work. Mine are saved randomly in folders all over my desktop. Some might be in notebooks or emails, but they’re everywhere.
Finding a story written a while ago can feel strange. ‘What’s this? I’ve got a vague memory of this character…Ah, hullo, my dear. You want me to play with you again? To listen…to share your voice.’
Guilt seeps in. Fear too – ‘Who else is languishing in my files unfinished or forgotten? I’m sorry my old friends. So sorry.’
Do you have a solid method of cataloging or keeping your work in an orderly fashion?
The situation that gives rise to this meandering post is I was raking my memories for two stories I knew should be sitting on my laptop. Both were published in a national women’s magazine and I wanted to share them with my local writing group.
Could I find the feckers? Nope.
Did I spend hours searching? I sure did!
But did I finally find them? Yes, in emails and on social media. Thank fuck.
But… as I looked for these elusive two, I found other stories I’d forgotten entirely. This got me thinking about my forgetfulness. Could I remember all the stories I’ve ever written? How might I ever find those I’ve forgotten?
Do you uncover old work and get a pleasant surprise?
The short story below was published in Woman’s Way (Ireland) in 2020.
SMALL EXPECTATIONS
This day thirty years ago, June Molloy called her only son Paddy. Since then, Glenfadagh village hasn’t expected much from June and now she feels the same.
‘You still like birthdays,’ June says to Paddy’s large back at the kitchen table as she places the list of orders for her homemade jam behind the brass candlestick on the mantel. ‘You’re a fully grown man who still loves getting presents.’
Paddy can’t answer for whatever reason the doctors gave. June has purposely forgotten why and now it doesn’t matter.
Paddy’s boots are covered in dung. ’Did the other children let you ring the bell around the market square for the cattle auction?’ she asks. ‘You like the sound and they’re kind to you when you’ve got the bell. Let me take your coat off.’
An envelope falls from his pocket.
‘Is that for me?’ June points and waits for Paddy to tire of the boiled sweets and new socks. When he hands it to her, the envelope is crumpled. ‘There’s no stamp. Local,’ she muses fixing her brown hair. ‘Who gave you this?’ But June needn’t have asked, for when she tears it open she can see the Sergeant’s name on the bottom of the expensive writing paper. The Sergeant was good to Paddy when there were complaints about loitering and looking in windows, but the neat handwriting worries June as she starts to read.
Glenfadagh Garda Station,
Main Street.
27th June 1947.
Dear June,
I hope this finds you well. I bought one of your lovely pots of jam from the grocer’s the other day. You are a talented lady.
I thought I might have seen you, but I know that you keep yourself to yourself. I have taken the coward's way out too and thought I’d write to ask if you might come to the dance in the hall with me next Saturday.
Paddy might be able to deliver a reply.
Now, before you think we are both past the age for dancing, I know that we could show the youngsters a thing or two. I’ve been stationed here in Glenfadagh for a while and I feel settled but I need the companionship of a good woman.
Please don’t use Paddy as an excuse. He can come as well. He’d love the music.
Yours in hope,
Sergeant William Notley.
June’s handkerchief is sodden and the inked words run slightly as she reads the pages again. If June had a friend she might confide in them, but the walls of the cottage are no help. Would her big, soft lad mind if she danced with a nice man? Those dark, handsome eyes smile up at her and he presents his bag of treasures for her to share.
‘What do you think? Will we go dancing with the Sergeant?’
Paddy sucks on three sweets at once and grins. June ruffles his black hair. Her reply is a hurried, short scribble. She has no regrets until she’s in the grocer’s the next morning.
‘Paddy came in and gave me your envelope,’ the red-faced grocer Mick announces far too loudly. ‘I opened it. I’m sorry.’
Everything in June clenches.
‘I don’t think it’d be right for a burdened woman like yourself to be…’
June turns on her heel... but there is tall William Notley’s smiling moustache and twinkling eyes.
‘…. like I was saying,’ the grocer Mick goes on. ‘I’m sorry that Paddy gave the note to me as I have an opinion on everything but... I don’t think it’s right for a woman like yourself to give up on happiness. What do you think Sergeant Notley? Shouldn’t June here let whoever the note was for, take her to the dance next Saturday?’
June cannot look at either man and fumbles with her gloves. William stands forward and takes her shaking hands. ‘It’s one night and a dance or two. There’s nothing improper in being my companion. Paddy is welcome to come along too. Say you will. Make me happy.’
The following Saturday, the whole of Glenfadagh holds their breath when William Notley takes June and Paddy onto the dance floor.
As June swings to the music, she finally starts to expect a life for herself.
Do you write stories and forget them?
Yes! It goes both ways - sometimes it's "GENIUS!" Other times "WEIRDO!" I've been planning to go back through some of my failed attempts at novels and turn the 30-50 pages into short stories, so it should be a suitably hair-raising adventure. LOVE "Small Expectations."