Not a single redundant word here. Incredibly well thought through - real mastery of condensation. That line, "It chose her face," might seem ordinary at first, but I adore it. Simply lovely.
You too! I feel gifted and nourished by so much incredible writing - there remains a space in my bookcase resolutely dedicated to your first published offering…
I’m sorry I haven’t been here in such a long time. A lot going on.
Okay, about this piece. I don’t need to tell you I have a lot of questions because you know I always do. However, today I’m not going to ask you all of them because there is one that is just so much more compelling to me than the rest. It’s about these two lines:
“You’re speaking past me, to the photographs.”
AND
“Blue eyeliner. Before September. Before I knew there was a June.”
Okay, so here’s the question. (First, though, I’ll tell you I know I’m ignoring the relationship between the elements in this last line with the first time you mention them, earlier in the piece.) The question is, what is the relationship between the two lines I have quoted? Because I think there is one. Also, I notice this is at least the second time you mention your mother is “looking/speaking past you” or something remarkably similar. Is this something you want to talk about?
So the mother looking past the daughter – I wanted to create the impression that she’s drifted back into her past. That she’s no longer ‘present’ in the moment, but is back in the place where the photographs were taken. The other line then refers to the daughter’s difficultly getting her head round the fact that the mother had a life before she was born. She, of course, rationally knew there was a June – rather, it refers to the way we tend to centre our parents round our own existence.
And no need to apologise. Sending all good wishes x
Lol - that’s at myself. Because almost before you began to explain, I realized how glaringly obvious both of those explanations are. There was no lack of clarity in your writing. It’s me. Some days, I’m online straight through for about 16 hours and clearly, I eventually develop some form of tunnel vision or just plain exhaustion. Simply put, I don’t stop when it’s time, then write dumb things. And no need to further reply -don’t worry, I’m not embarrassed, just laughing about it. Thank you for your constant indulgence and patience!
“That night I look at the one where you’re squinting into sun, blonde and twenty-two and not yet my mother.
Did you walk into the trees when the shutter closed?” Oh goodness, Holly, what an amazing piece of writing this is. If it’s not perfect, I can’t tell the difference. It’s remarkable in its details, emotionally weighted - even with absence: what’s not said, the missing photo, the empty spot on the table. And the Polaroid of the trees! The writing is tightly woven. Nothing wasted. This one’s going to haunt me. And you have a perfect title. William Stafford once said he’d give up all he’d written for the next poem he would write. So, I’d give up all I’ve written if the next piece could have been this one. A great, great piece. 🙇♂️
Thank you so much Sam! I hesitated before posting this one. I sat on it for a while because I thought maybe it was too quiet; I’m glad the gaps in it worked. And I love that Stafford quotation!
I cried. I miss my mom who died when I was nine. I never ‘knew her’. I have all the family photos so it’s time to read that story. You gave that to me.
Cori, this comment stopped me in my tracks. Losing your mom at nine, before you could really know her… must be such a profound and particular kind of grief. The fact that you have the family photos feels meaningful, like pieces of a story waiting to be read. I hope going through them brings you something tender. X
Photo: Sichen Xiang on Unsplash.
https://vamoul.substack.com/p/does-it-help-to-be-religious?r=o1yr3&utm_medium=ios
Not a single redundant word here. Incredibly well thought through - real mastery of condensation. That line, "It chose her face," might seem ordinary at first, but I adore it. Simply lovely.
Thank you M, much appreciated coming from you <3
Dammmn. This is good. Bravo.
Thanks Buzz zz zz :-)
Bravo is the right word here.
I'm a master of words so it was highly likely I was going to choose the most correctiest one.
Remarkable
I’m jealous of your talent.
Ah, stop! Heheh. Thank you for reading Selkie!
This made me feel something real.
Thank you David :-)
I loved this! your writing is so captivating and just a lovely essence of beautifully written words that all manage to fit together.
Thank you Stephanie! Really glad you enjoyed it & thank you for the kind words 🤍
I so agree!
Oh my. Saving this to read again, with old photos.
Thank you Kim! I am often overwhelmed by metrics but I always appreciate seeing people save things – it’s quite lovely :-)
Have a good Sunday.
oh to know our parents as they were before…I think about this often. you captured it perfectly.
It’s often on my mind too! Thank you lovely <3
quietly haunting. a nostalgia? diaphanous prose. subdued, but leaves a lump in my throat. thank you for writing.
Thank you for reading and commenting – allowed me to find your work! <3
brb fan-girling over a coffee-stained print-out of my current short story which i am annotating in blue [eyeliner]
Hahaha 🩵
Perfect. Always perfect.
Thank you John. Have a lovely Sunday! 🩵
You too! I feel gifted and nourished by so much incredible writing - there remains a space in my bookcase resolutely dedicated to your first published offering…
(You’re too kind to me and thank you!)
Hi Holly!
I’m sorry I haven’t been here in such a long time. A lot going on.
Okay, about this piece. I don’t need to tell you I have a lot of questions because you know I always do. However, today I’m not going to ask you all of them because there is one that is just so much more compelling to me than the rest. It’s about these two lines:
“You’re speaking past me, to the photographs.”
AND
“Blue eyeliner. Before September. Before I knew there was a June.”
Okay, so here’s the question. (First, though, I’ll tell you I know I’m ignoring the relationship between the elements in this last line with the first time you mention them, earlier in the piece.) The question is, what is the relationship between the two lines I have quoted? Because I think there is one. Also, I notice this is at least the second time you mention your mother is “looking/speaking past you” or something remarkably similar. Is this something you want to talk about?
Hey Kelly,
So the mother looking past the daughter – I wanted to create the impression that she’s drifted back into her past. That she’s no longer ‘present’ in the moment, but is back in the place where the photographs were taken. The other line then refers to the daughter’s difficultly getting her head round the fact that the mother had a life before she was born. She, of course, rationally knew there was a June – rather, it refers to the way we tend to centre our parents round our own existence.
And no need to apologise. Sending all good wishes x
Hi Holly,
Lol - that’s at myself. Because almost before you began to explain, I realized how glaringly obvious both of those explanations are. There was no lack of clarity in your writing. It’s me. Some days, I’m online straight through for about 16 hours and clearly, I eventually develop some form of tunnel vision or just plain exhaustion. Simply put, I don’t stop when it’s time, then write dumb things. And no need to further reply -don’t worry, I’m not embarrassed, just laughing about it. Thank you for your constant indulgence and patience!
🫶🏻😊
a version of your mother that never belonged to you.
Indeed! :-)
Stunning imagery and use of words. Everything came to life for me. ‘Blue eyeliner. Before September. Before I knew there was a June.’ Love it 🖤📷
Thank you very much lovely! 🩵
“That night I look at the one where you’re squinting into sun, blonde and twenty-two and not yet my mother.
Did you walk into the trees when the shutter closed?” Oh goodness, Holly, what an amazing piece of writing this is. If it’s not perfect, I can’t tell the difference. It’s remarkable in its details, emotionally weighted - even with absence: what’s not said, the missing photo, the empty spot on the table. And the Polaroid of the trees! The writing is tightly woven. Nothing wasted. This one’s going to haunt me. And you have a perfect title. William Stafford once said he’d give up all he’d written for the next poem he would write. So, I’d give up all I’ve written if the next piece could have been this one. A great, great piece. 🙇♂️
Thank you so much Sam! I hesitated before posting this one. I sat on it for a while because I thought maybe it was too quiet; I’m glad the gaps in it worked. And I love that Stafford quotation!
Glad you posted. It’s one of your best.
Another banger!!
Thank you Matilda! :-)
Lovely
Thank you Marilyn!
I cried. I miss my mom who died when I was nine. I never ‘knew her’. I have all the family photos so it’s time to read that story. You gave that to me.
Cori, this comment stopped me in my tracks. Losing your mom at nine, before you could really know her… must be such a profound and particular kind of grief. The fact that you have the family photos feels meaningful, like pieces of a story waiting to be read. I hope going through them brings you something tender. X
52 years on I’m ‘all growed up’ but that doesn’t stop the wisps of time from catching me off guard at times.