Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
Piece 1: 5 minute dump.
Sometimes I’m so scared of writing I think I will freeze or ossify and cripple myself. Sometimes I’m scared of writing because I’m scared that it will be a waste, that it won’t be the right decision. Because I need to make the right decisions. Sometimes I’m scared of writing because I’m scared of it being bad. Of being good. Of being bad. Of not knowing. Of not knowing myself. I’m scared of being a fool. I’m scared people will laugh at me and realise I’m actually an idiot. I’m scared I’ll have no respect. No precious respect. I’m scared I won’t be listened to, to be worth listening to. I’m scared I’m not worthy. Not worthy of love. I’m so scared I won’t be loved after my mother dies. I’m scared of writing because it’s better to keep your mouth shut and leave people wondering if you’re stupid than to open it and remove all doubt. I’m scared I just won’t be any good. I’m scared that after all the time and money – so much money – invested in my education that it will be wasted doing something at which I am not talented, at all. I’m scared my writing will be poor. That it will be ignored. So I’m scared of writing. Writers are so brave, so tough, so selfish. I wonder if writing is a conceit. I’m afraid that writing lacks integrity. There is suffering in the world, but my stories would not heal that.
Piece 2: 5 minute dump 2. Chelsea’s fucking middle class guilt angst.
A shopping list. Apparently a shopping list is fine for this 5 minutes of writing. I have a shopping list. Oh to buy what I could buy. My Dad buys what he needs. He buys the thrill of the rise of a long-haul flight. He buys the safety of a hotel room after a day in a Spanish market. He buys the gentle rocking of an ocean going boat moored at night in Vanuatu. He buys the rolling richness, the creeping warmth and gentle edge of a well-aged Burgundy. He buys the confidence that when you go to hospital you will get good food, peace and hand towels. He bought the feeling of a warm, pretty woman in bed with him at night, the reflected glow of her perfect dress and manicure at the Swisse tent at the Cup. He has bought the company of ex-leading professionals in the Probus club to join him in his retirement. He bought the sight of a glowering sunset over the bay from the upper deck of the yacht club. And when all fell apart, when my house would be lost, when my children were to be ripped from their home, my Dad bought me. Thank God. But Dad can’t buy his way out now. He can’t buy the cancer out of his bones and his liver. Dad can’t buy 20 years to see his great-grandchildren. Dad can’t buy the world better. So what is my shopping list? I’d buy his life now. But maybe give it a little bit longer, until he faces his death and truly sees what cannot be bought.
And finally: What I’d do if I had 6 months to live.
If I had 6 months to life I’d sell the house, take my kids and go around the world. I’d take them to Nepal and South East Asia and India. I’d take them to Prague and Rome. They’d learn the world is rich and good and needs them. They’d learn they are a tiny star in an infinite constellation, yet a star like everyone else. They’d learn their mother is independent and creative and strong and in love with them. They’d learn that they are survivors.