Sunday, 30 October 2011
For a Moment There I Was Interesting
"I didn't know you were a writer" said the vicar, suddenly looking at me with a relieved sort of enthusiasm, as though he'd suddenly remembered that he had something to talk to me about after all.
"Ummmm..." I said vaguely, wondering what exactly he was referring to and hoping that I wouldn't have to fumble and fluff my way through an explanation of abandoned novels and unfulfilled ambitions.
"I was talking to some friends about an article I read in the Church Times a few years ago - I remembered the beautiful picture on the cover - and they told me that you wrote it!" he said, looking so genuinely impressed and interested that I felt myself flushing for a moment and feeling quite overcome by my own mediocre accomplishment.
And as I explained to him about the freelance writing that I'd done and the magazine that I'd worked on and he nodded and asked questions and listened to the answers intently, I realised that for a moment I was interesting.
Interesting in a way that I could never be for sweeping floors and playing peekaboo and washing dishes and playing with play dough. Interesting in a way that allowed me to speak and be listened to, remembered, recognised and ever so slightly revered.
And later, as I sat letting the thrill of a neighbour's interest wash over me once again and reading through some of my old work, I wondered whether I should begin writing freelance articles once again.
Not because it would fulfil my creative desires, not because it would give my life purpose, not because I can't live without the money and not because I feel it's important for my career, but just because it would be nice, for one moment, to be interesting once again.