Too Many Broken Hearts

 In 1989 when Stock, Aiken and Waterman ruled the radio airwaves, Jason Donovan sang about broken hearts to an up-beat, bouncy disco tune. In the video he sat strumming his guitar, with no anguish in his demeanor just a dazzling smile somewhat at odds with the title of the song.

It contains the line…

I’ll be hurt, I’ll be hurt if you walk away!

Thinking about the lyrics and the tune now it’s all so feeble. It could be describing kids squabbling in a playground kind of “hurt” - you pushed me - you started it. A small graze on the knee kind of hurt which will scab over only leaving the faintest of scars if you pick at it too much.

At the time I loved the song, after all Jason, Kylie and I were in born in the same year, so we must be kindred spirits – ’68 was such a good vintage.

Over thirty years later (which doesn’t seem possible) I know the real pain of a broken heart, it’s beyond a little bit of hurt, but Mr Donovan is right about one thing, there are far too many of them in the world.

I guess it’s inevitable as you get older that more people join that special club, the one I’ve been a part of for years, exclusively for widows, widowers and those who have lost the love of their lives. As time rolls on, I find more and more friends and acquaintances cross over to my camp.  Once I was the pioneer, the only one here negotiating this strange new territory.

Maybe that’s too fanciful an image but when I started my first blog, just after Andrew died, friends read my words and were helped as I poured out the contents of my broken heart into the ether.

I’ve always wanted to turn my words into a book, hoping the wisdom I have gathered can help others. My legacy, some recompense for my own suffering, making it all strangely worthwhile.

To this end I put my money where my mouth is and coughed up for a Curtis Brown Creative short, online, writing course in the summer, led by memoirist Cathy Rentzenbrink. She is an excellent teacher, even if on the short course you only get to watch her video tutorials rather than meet her in person.

I turned in my shorter assignments each week and got some great peer feedback from others on the course. Encouragement to carry on, I have a story to tell.

But writing a memoir is so different from writing a blog. It needs more of a narrative, a story telling quality. The facts I consider most important and want to explain in great detail need cutting as I show the scenes of my life through a cinematic lens. I need drama, light and shade, panning shots and zooming in. Show not tell.

I have never appreciated all this before. At the beginning I just thought I could stitch together blog posts with a few extra comments in between as glue, it was just a matter of rearranging and sorting. This process has taken me ten years already, stopping and starting, and maybe it will take another ten to complete it, which is a daunting prospect.

Meanwhile the list of the broken hearted grows and I welcome others to this barren land of bereavement.

Nothing I write can ever heal a deepest hurt but I remain convinced I need to keep going. Hoping and praying my words find the right ear and bring some soothing balm in difficult days, a quiet voice whispering, "I know your heart aches and you are not alone."