Dog in Residence: Week 5, Day 33
Guest blogger: Horrie Oddlong
The colour has drained right out of me.
There’s been a massacre.
The House Writer is calling it a eucatastrophe but I say she’s bonkers. How can the wholesale shredding of five weeks’ work be considered a good thing?
It was frightening, that stony look on her face as she fed page after ink-smudged page into the composter. All those narrative journeys she sent me on, all the dramatic turning points, the tense moments, the quiet pauses for reflection, the endless improvised rants… all gone, destined to fortify the marigolds.
The stuff involving Peggy of Braeside was the first to get munched, and rightly so. What a low point we hit when that haiku-spruiking upstart snatched the blog from my grasp.
But the rest? I really thought it was going places. I thought we were in Reese Witherspoon Book Club territory. I dared to believe I would soon be a household name, synonymous with courage, grace, wit and sagacity. At the very least I expected the House Writer to breeze onto the Miles Franklin long list.
Alas, of the countless pages written during this self-imposed lockdown, only two survive.
One is a page of scrawl with a giant cross scratched through it, overlaid with bold capital letters from a mint green paint pen (all that stationery really did come in handy):
KILL YOUR DARLINGS!
The other contains one simple line:
That came as some consolation. At least it did until she packed a bag, grabbed her keys and left without so much as a ‘Want to come for the ride?’ from the doorway.
And then I found this.
So now I have the nostalgia-charged Residency playlist on high rotation, and a soft ankle boot within easy reach.
I guess I’ll just wait here, then.