The Moving Finger Writes

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I’m trying to tidy up the mess I’ve made of my desk these last few weeks. A proper mess it is too. I’ve put hundreds of notifications in a terrifying selection of “To Do” files on my computer, and left little scribbled notes to myself all over the place. I’m trying not to look at the 2 891 Unread Emails notice, although I’m guessing that they’ll just have to stay that way for a few more days. From a very wobbly start to the week, I finally seem to have my brain back to firing on most of its cylinders, and these little notes that I kindly sent to myself are looking more like the rantings of a crazed stalker than little old me. Most of it’s in red pen too. Very threatening indeed. A lot are mercifully illegible, but there are quite a few good story ideas in there. I’m not sure if they’re actually meant to be story ideas, because I honestly can’t remember writing them. It’s just safer to assume that they are, and avoid future therapy.

There was a dour and frightening epistle, which I’m guessing was meant to be my short story for our anthology group. That headed off to its rightful place in the bin on top of a dodgy tomato. There’s a dreadful attempt at poetry that also joined the tomato, and a sketch of what looks like a doughnut. There are two fairly lucid outlines though, that I’ve popped onto my computer for future use, so the weeks haven’t been a total write-off. Now to catch up with my social networking, and hold thumbs that life goes quietly on until after Shadow People and African Me are launched. You never know around here.

It’s funny though, that even though I couldn’t do silly things, like walk to the kitchen in under half an hour or keep both eyes open at the same time, I just carried on with the scribbles. I guess that must make me a writer. An author friend on Google+ was telling me that right in the middle of anaphylactic shock, on a gurney in the ER, all she could think of was to tell her husband to take notes, because there was something she wanted to write about if she made it through. The actual imminent possibility of actually dying didn’t occur to her – just the story. I think when writing is in your blood, you can never stop. It’s all consuming, and every little thing ends up on a page somewhere. We write not only to tell our stories, but sometimes just to share our joys or sadness. And sometimes to exorcise our demons. Write on my friends! We are a lovely, crazy bunch, and I’m off to dive back into the fray.

Till next time friends. xxx