Sisyphus, Greek fellow, the inspiration for my first foray into writing.  What created this scribbling frenzy was a programme on BBC Radio Four, where the panellists’ waxed lyrical about what they considered to be the best opening lines, and to be fair, what caught my ear wasn’t the books from which they were quoting (the usual suspects), which were by and large excellent books, but that the opening lines themselves, which in isolation, weren’t exactly all that inspiring.  And, therein a spark became a something, that in turn became my first attempt to write a story.

I started with an opening It wasn’t a cliché…

And then I kind of just meandered into a paragraph, and then a page, and well you can guess how the rest of it all develops.

The story itself evolved out of a reaction to the proliferation of ‘warrior porn’. You know, the memoirs of the pivotal killing machines, ALL snipers in Seal Team 6?!? These reluctant heroes, who despite their presence in theatre, neither Iraq, or indeed Afghanistan, were resounding successes for the coalition forces – with such killing machines on our side, who’d have guessed?

Oh, for the absolute avoidance of any possible doubt, I am NOT belittling any genuine heroic events – my total and unreserved respect goes out to those people who did heroic things.  My frustration, my objection is with the telling of the tales by those who somehow weren’t…

So, I thought to myself how about writing a self-confessed bit of honest fiction?  You know, a real and genuine tale of human failings, insecurity, and all that kind of stuff – and, so, I did, and my first sad story “Sisyphus’s Burden” was written.

I should have stopped there, I should have, but I didn’t, and from a Greek perpetually pushing a rock up a mountain in Afghanistan (Sisyphus’s Burden) we ended up with an angry vengeful woman flying around the world killing people (Amy Grace) – oh, and tales of unrequited love and yet more murder (The Big House) and loneliness and isolation (The Diary of a Nobody).

A happy puppy dog story, about finding a lost balloon, and drinking celebratory lemonade may follow – maybe, but until then, we’ll just keep plodding along with the above, and see how it all pans out.

You climb to the top, drag your body up the millions of vertigo inducing steps, to stand looking down at the tiny chlorine filled puddle of water – now what? 

You want to jump, you really do. 

Yet, fear of so many things keep you firmly away from the edge. 

You swing your arms back and forth, rocking from left foot to right, trying to create momentum to take you forward to the concrete edge, past it, and into the abyss of the known unknown.  

But, despite all the deep breathing, arm swinging, foot swapping, you are as far from the edge as you’ve ever been. 

Friends, confidants, little sayings on calendars, they all tell you to do it, that you’ll be okay – that you should jump.

Ignoring your passion is slow suicide!

Burying your talents in a field for fear of failure – you can recall a parable about that, you are sure you can…

Swinging arms, hopping feet, deep breathing…

You ask for signs, look for totems of assurances from the gods, from karma, the cosmos; then you seek second opinions, validation of the first sign, and the second – maybe you should just make sure, to be sure, after all what if you are wrong, what if you fail?!?! 

Swinging arms, hopping feet, deep breathing…

You know it’s not the critic that counts, that it is all about the doer of the deeds, you love that Roosevelt ‘Man in the Arena’ quote, yet…

If you never jump…  well you know how that plays out. 

Swinging arms, hopping feet, deep breathing…

You are currently living the foot hopping life – you’ve always been living the left right foot hop. 

So, why do you want to jump, what is it you are looking for, what are you trying to achieve?

It can’t be fame or fortune, they are transient whims so easily lost, if you are to gamble what is it you are trying to win? 

And, despite your lifelong love of words you cannot dig from your lexicon words to articulate the hunger, the need, the primal desire to jump. 

Yet fear is easy to describe; swinging arms, hopping feet, deep breathing…

And then…

You fall forward, legs almost buckling under your weight, the concrete disappears, and the air rushes past your body as you plummet downwards.

But, you are not falling, you are flying.  Flying down towards your fear, towards your dream.

Chlorine smells strong, the water warm, the splash painful, the joy exhilarating, the euphoria of jumping intoxicating.

You are climbing before the water has fallen from your body, jumping again and again, the thrill never diminishing, never changing from one jump to the next.

You don’t need validation, witnesses, scores held on cards above heads – your glory is personal, maybe shared with friends, but held next to a pumping heart, not a cold and timid soul who knows neither victory or defeat!