Saturday, 6 July 2013

Time travel. Sort of.

You may have noticed it's been quiet at my end for a couple of weeks. Well, hopefully you have. The morning after my last blog post, my wife had to go to hospital for an appendectomy which came out of nowhere. As you can imagine, that took precedence over everything - writing, going to work and, of course, blog updates. Thankfully, everything is OK. She had her appendix out and while she's still sore and bored shitless by daytime telly, she's on the mend.

Now obviously, my mind wasn't really on writing while she was in hospital and I couldn't concentrate on the book I'm currently reading, so I dug out an old, tattered copy of Stephen King's Different Seasons. For those who haven't read this one, it's a collection of four novellas - two of which are a couple of King's most well-known (and probably well loved) stories: The Body which became the film Stand By Me, and Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption which became the film Love, Actually. OK. It didn't really. Anyway, I went back to those two tales for their familiarity and because they're absolutely superb stories. But something caught my eye before I started reading. Something on the inside cover.

My childish signature and a date. 18th August, 1989. A quick look over at Wiki reveals various events which probably meant nothing to me as an eleven year old boy. Politics, murders, George Bush, deaths, the Sega Genesis and much more didn't really have an impact on me at the time. What mattered to me at that precise point was stories, books, made up people and stuff that hadn't really happened. I wanted characters I could live with for the duration of their story and want to return to sometimes. See how they were sort of thing. Nothing's changed. I still want characters like that. I still want stories that take me away and make me want to come back to them even if it is the best part of twenty-five years later. Seeing my scrawl on the inside cover of that book along with the date I wrote it was like time travel. Just for a second, I went back to being that eleven year old kid who loved stories. As a thirty-five year old man with a wife in hospital, that was no bad thing.


  1. glad Mrs Luke is on the mend. And that is one of my favourite King books.

    1. Cheers. Same here - on both counts.