You know this already, it is 2018.
The deep red of the hawthorn fruit is resplendent against a silver sky, its bark black with penetrating rain. Patches of pale yellow swathe the still green grass, disfiguring the enduring landscape, but look again and you can imagine sheep flocking home, their woolly edges like fallen clouds seeking respite from the advancing storm.
The last year has sentimentally fallen, tripping over the horizon like the sun, its fuel spent after a long day filling the sky with its watery white winter light.
What will this year bring? The news of a shortlist for a short story was generously received. My latest film premieres at the Glasgow Film Theatre on the 15th of January. There will be a 50th birthday for myself and my twin. A half century! Third birthday wishes for two grandsons. I will work, I will write and I will love my children and grandchildren.
Beyond all that I don’t know what the year will send. Sabotage, subterfuge or satisfaction. Probably all three.
The world is stabbing itself intently, shearing devastation in circular swipes that cut us violently, the battle for political supremacy its guise, the collapse of integrity and the ability to simply survive its outcome.
I shall try to explore its footfall and push into dark storms, consuming greedily its contrasting fruitful harvests, devouring my imagination and marching head on into the merciless wind. As I do so, I will hope that I don’t journey alone and that as a human race we can share the map, our fingers tattooed in the ink of softened edges.
What will 2018 bring for you?
Margot McCuaig 