The Real Thing

Sanding down the kitchen table this afternoon where the hound had taken a chunk of the edge, it struck me that I actually don't mind the newly shabby chic look of the oak. Just as well as she has done the same with the spindles on several of the reclaimed oak church chairs I lovingly sourced to go with it. I like imperfection - it makes life interesting, people and things unique. I would far rather sit down with friends and family in a warm home full of chaos and fun than in a sterile show home where you take your shoes off at the door and the cellophane on the furniture squeaks as you sit down, but maybe that's just me.

Authenticity, the real thing speaks to you - you can feel it in your bones. That's what we are all aiming for - an authentic, clear voice in our work that is uniquely our own. When I started writing I was like a sponge - after a spell reading the entire works of Isabel Allende I was merrily producing mannered magic realism stories. Before moving to Spain I read every Hemingway I could lay my hands on and my texts briefly grew more macho by the day. Somewhere along the way though you feel your work falling into its own stride. Listen to your words, read the texts over to yourself, let them run through your mind as you walk and soon you will find your own unique rhythm. Soon you will notice what jars - which paragraphs and sentences and words even do not sound true to you. No one else on earth thinks exactly the same as you, talks the same, notices things in the way that you do. You have your own unique voice - let's hear it.