Demon in a Stroller

Outside my house there is a small dog in a pushchair. Its eyes bulge behind a fine mesh and it barks like a squeaky toy – if the toy was being frantically manhandled by a demon. I think it belongs to my new neighbour. Let’s call her puffer jacket lady.

It’s 72.2 miles from my house to Haworth in West Yorkshire. It would take about 1.5 hours in a car, but I don’t drive. I’ll take 2 trains, a taxi, and a bus, and be drinking tea in under 3. I wish I had someone to push me in a stroller. It’s about 8 feet from the sofa to my desk and it’s taken me all day to get here.

 Q&A with myself:

 What exactly is the fear?

> That I’ll get it wrong.

How could you get it wrong?

> Like, it won’t be Brontë enough.

You mean it won’t be literal or factual enough?

> Yes.

Is that what they’re expecting?

> No, I’m not a biographer.

So, they know you’re an artist who writes?

> Yep.

And they chose you anyway?

> Yep.

So, you just need to be yourself?

> Yes, but what if that’s wrong, and what if I’m not going fast enough?

 You have 12 months.

 As always, I immediately need to know how other women have done this. I don’t even really exist unless I’m standing next to somebody. I found this bio from 2020 that seems like the kind of thing I should have written.

Susan Finlay is the Freud Museum’s new Writer-in-Residence. Over the next six months she will be using objects from Freud’s collection as associative prompts through which to write about her own, real, and fictitious memories. She will produce a series of photographic and textual vignettes.

It’s so clear and succinct, and perfectly captures my own approach. But I didn’t write it. I’m not Susan. I’m Nicky, and I’m writing about a chihuahua in a pushchair.

 You’ll be fine.