SYNCHRONICITY – AGAIN

All true:

A Writer writes about interviewing another writer about writing her latest book, and puts in on her blog.
She has discovered a blog by another female writer. In Australia. She decides to ‘follow this blog.
That blog writer receives a notification of this, and goes to visit this new follower at her blog.
The writer hails from the north of Scotland. This author grew up on the west coast of Scotland. Instant connection.
This writer reads other writer’s interview of third author, and in so doing finds the answer to an unanswered question in her own life, in the answer to another question:

‘The hardest part was knowing when to stop. When is enough information enough? Research could go on forever, but once the story has formed firmly round it, and you know what sort of underwear everyone was wearing, it’s probably time to write the book.’
This writer ticks the ‘follow’ button of the other writer, clicks on the link to the third writer’s book on Amazon, and a sample on Kindle. She likes what she sees, and goes back to Amazon to buy the book. Far away, the third writer receives a notification that she has sold another book.

Synchronicity

Meanwhile, in the Yorkshire Dales, on a glorious sunlight summer’s afternoon, as the sheep further down the field graze the bright green grass, so different to the dry yellow grass of the Australian paddocks, a slight tremble, as …as light as a puff of air shimmering through a wet spider’s web after a storm, wakes a young couple standing in a trance.
They turn to each other, smile gently and, in unison, whisper,
“She’s back!”
They kiss.
Definitely not the end.

Simultaneously, in a damp winter bedroom of an old, cold, Scottish stone cottage, a shabby tabby cat sitting alert atop an open, older style bright red suitcase with rounded corners, no not corners, corners are sharp, not rounded……

The cat shrugs her shoulders, rises stretches. She turns round three times, her paws stretching and tensing, kneading the soft woollen knitwear in the case into a comfy nest. Gracefully she settles down into her new bed, tension released. She sighs, softly, instinctively knowing her. story. stops. he………

Synchronicity again.

I am watching a movie about a Zoo on TV. I should be writing. My novel was at a standstill but now I know my characters need more…oomph! I have totally lost interest in the cat story.

On screen something is said, I can’t even remember what, and ‘ding’! A lightbulb goes off in my head. A real lightbulb moment, light and all. A memory triggered.

What are the odds of your beloved partner of five and a half years being suddenly diagnosed as having large cell lung cancer and being given only the months to live – on Valentines Day.

Just when he has decided you are getting married despite him being a staunch Catholic and your marriage annulment still being denied by the Catholic Church because you have been too honest, and too nice, and especially too Christian, to let these people know how soul-destroying your marriage to your children’s father had been?

Now you are making a new life, but three months of intense loving, intense caring, bedside from hospice to hospital, his home.

Moving to a shared flat to be closer, while his daughter moves in with him because her marriage has broken down.

What are the odds of taking the last six weeks off work without pay to care for the love of your life while he is dying, in the hope that the radiation is actually doing something, but the morphine is making him so nauseous and vomiting that he is actually starving to death, and his family that you have been sworn to promise not to tell he is dying, turning on you in the consultation with the specialist, and having you asked to leave the room because you said something?
Later, the specialist comes to find you, and treats you as the life partner Neville thinks of you.

But Neville dies. In n the darkened hospital room of the Mater, inside the corral of drawn curtains, as your loved one fights for breath and tries to stay with you, you have to kiss him and whisper in his ear that it is all right to go, because you have already seen that those who went before have come for him.
He has not gone alone.

Somehow, over the next few weeks that helps. You never do get that annulment. During your six-week absence a new director has taken over at work, and your contract is due for renewal. The new Director has not got to know you. Your contract is not extended.

The lease is also up on the house you were sharing while looking after Neville. You all decide to move on.

What are the odds of moving from East Maitland to Hamilton to be closer to work, where you are now going from one temp job to another, and falling in love with an expensive rental property because it has bay windows with real leadlight glass and lovely exotic trees in the surrounds?

You need someone to share the rent so you can live there. Warily you put an advert in the Newcastle Herald.

The first person seems an unlikely candidate. Leather jacket, wild blonde hair, chin jutting with attitude. Just moved back from Canberra. Quietly spoken for someone who likes heavy metal music.
Over coffee you decide to trust.

One evening a couple of weeks in, you both decide to go out for coffee. You tell her about Neville.

He had lived in Kurri. She grew up in Kurri.

She went to the same school as Neville’s children.

The ones you knew.

She knew Neville! Your Neville! He had been a lovely man.

Synchronicity

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