Roads to Joy

I seem to gravitate to prolonged projects: diaries; novels; long-running blogs; more novels; social histories; even a lengthening set of joys. My personal joy this morning is the completion of one project, and the anticipation of delving into another.

The social history project that I devised, some 18 months ago, was to create a lasting, tangible set of memories comprising the timespan of Allendale’s local philanthropic service organisation, the Allendale Lions Club. Being a charter member meant that I had a direct connection to the group, from its beginnings until now, when my beloved and I, having moved north into Scotland, are ‘members-at-large’. Much of our hearts are still in Allendale, of course, and the completion of the social history helps us to recognise that continuing emotional involvement.

Projects as originally envisaged, however, do not always (perhaps even, rarely!) come to the expectation at the outset. In the case of this social history project, in fact, the result is a truncated volume comprising the first, wonderful decade of the club’s existence. The second decade was, in many ways, just as vibrant, just as fizzy, but the images, in these days of universal photos and selfies on personal phones, have been so scattered and uncollated that they’ve proved impossible to consolidate. And my sensibility is that without images to tweak memories, the best words in the world are insufficient.

Hence, of course, the collection of images gracing the cover of the completed BlogBook, the compilation of the last 18 months of blog entries at ALclub.uk. Fellow members of the club will recognise all of the images, which of course are scattered throughout the bound volume, but they’ll mostly be meaningless to anyone else, and the cover must seem very busy, complicated. No matter: sometimes writing and collections are done for a tiny, restricted audience.

But it’s been a long and often arduous odyssey, this particular volume. Writing from afar for most of the time, with the sense that finally, we have really moved away, it’s been a bit bittersweet, with a modicum of tristesse that impacts upon every word and image. But I’ve still wanted to do my best, a kind of responsibility to engage with the task and produce something to hold in one’s hand. And now the first prototype volumes are being printed, so that club members can order their own copy based firmly on ‘what they’re going to get.’ 

With the prototypes safely away at the printers, I can look around at new project(s), and my sights are set on finding a new subject for another novel. That should be fun, though I don’t have, as yet, a clear vision of the way forward. My novels have tended to begin with a short story, though I feel like an ingenue in that format. But with a story completed, then I want to dig deeper into the characters, to explore their provenance, to consider how they became what they could be, or how they might become the person hinted at in the shorter piece. 

The idea of ‘the muted voice’ arose within my latest novelistic project, and compelled the writing throughout its gestation. My new concept is something to do with how a community works, how industriousness, or creativity, or indeed the opposites of lethargy, anomie and fatalistic dismay, might be inspired by the particular complexity of that community. It’s something of a big ask, this concept, and of course I need a character, a challenge, a catharsis and a resolution. 

Such fun ahead, just as it’s been such fun to look back at the reality of what a friendly club of community-minded individuals can accomplish.