The three blog entries which will follow this one constitute an experiment.

I wanted to see if I could peel down to the core of a difficult experience, to write about it in retrospect in a way which would feel authentic but which would translate to the uninitiated.

There’s no mystery, really, just a warning; these next three entries may prove a tough read.

As a proviso - in so far as an experience such as the one I am about to describe can ever be mitigated or improved upon - it is some comfort to know that things are handled differently now - better, I think - I would like to hope so, anyway.

Prologue:

From: The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho.

In this scene a calligrapher is describing to his apprentice, the central character, his ideas about two types of writing:

‘The first is precise but lacks soul. In this case, although the calligrapher may have mastered the technique he has focussed solely on the craft which is why it hasn’t evolved, but become repetitive, he hasn’t grown at all and one day he’ll give up the practice of writing because he feels it is mere routine.

The second kind is done with great techinique, but with soul as well. For that to happen, the intention of the writer must be in harmony with the word. In this case the saddest verses cease to be clothed in tragedy and are transformed into simple facts along the way.‘

I’m making no claims for the end result, just setting out what I’m aiming for…