I soon realized that having a sounding board when I’m trying to work out a sticky plot point is invaluable. Sometimes just the act of saying it out loud can help ideas to congeal into something tangible.
I am the slow spurt of water, reluctant, always too hot and always too cold. I am three hairs stuck to the shower wall in different coloured shapes and lengths that are so far from home they’ll never be un-lost.
Even if I could unfold myself,
No amount of pressing could erase
Morning comes the way it always does, harsh and sudden and unwelcome. I’ll just hit snooze one more time. I won’t be late again.
So write for yourself. Write for the love of words and stories. Write to process your feelings, to entertain, to leave a legacy. Write for any reason but what capitalism calls success, and see if, as a by-product, something you can call success will find you along the way.
I fear for her and I fear her and I fear what kind of person I’ll become when screams in the night won’t lift me from my chair.
Give me a hammock in the woods
A book or two
And let me pretend the world has stopped for now
I couldn’t very well leave it there. It had a mate somewhere and whether it had been lost or abandoned was not for me to know.
Perhaps that is just what the increasingly heavy state of the world does to us. It seems an insurmountable challenge to be joyfully creative when there are much weightier issues to be concerned with.
Terrence had never been one to just suck a lollipop. No sooner had he popped it in his mouth than his teeth were clamping down, chipping shards as sharp as glass.