Bearing the Egg

She's still afloat!

Good afternoon readers, it’s been a while.

Since we last met, I have trained as an FE teacher specialising in English. It’s the coalface of literacy and a daily reminder of the complexity of humanity and the society we have been unceremoniously dropped in to. It is hard work, grounding, humbling, and I love it.

Personally, I have needed a lot of salt to bear my egg, but the shell hasn’t broken. Still in tact and enjoying life in moments. The double - egg yolk, vape free lungs, and a queen size bag of prawn cocktail Bloody Mary crisps of an evening.

But I’m still writing. I was never a daily scribbler; I let it ferment and bubble before it flows. My work is miniature and condensed, and it suits the contemporary trend of shorter fiction. I now get lots of holidays to write, clear days where I can slip free and get lost in hyper-focus. Creative writing takes me to a different place and I cannot be disturbed by ‘what’s for dinner’, or ‘can I have some money for a septum keeper’.

I’m currently editing an autofiction novella on mental illness and its effects on family life. The coalface of love and pain, and the price we pay for our blood bonds. It’s called ‘The Mother Sauces’ (sauces is a noun, not a verb, it’s not that sort of book, cheeky!), and it starts like this.

The Mother Sauces -

Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash

Bearing the Egg

At the edge of the island, there is a place where the roads wind perilously close to the sea. Matter twisted by the elements, chalk cliffs eroded by the relentless, salty water until they crumble, slowly and over time, into the sea below. Cottages perch stubbornly on the edge of a cliff, and sleepers shudder as the waves below break like a fist onto the shore. In this place, one November night, a family ventures out into the darkness. A mother, reluctantly dragging her brood on a flight of fancy, a desperate attempt at something when all else has been futile. At home, the ceiling is leaking, and the bank balance is creaking under the weight of them all. They have trussed the baby girl and the five-year-old boy in their winter coats like suckling pigs. The grandmother doesn’t like her daughter taking the taxi alone, even though she is 36 years old. Grandmother knows that her daughter is drowning, and her children are the salt that will bear the egg and stop her sinking for good.

(I’m currently seeking an agent or small publisher for ‘The Mother Sauces’)

Save the Date

On 25/26 July I’ll be collaborating with Artist Jo Goddard on a fabric art and literary extravaganza. In a windmill! Expect folky doings, fabric, short fiction and poetry. Details to follow.

@art_rovers - Insta

Until next time,

Michelle C Porter