euananthony

A writer sits down at a desk. Is this a mistake? Rain pours outside the window. Two days ago, their charismatic, aren’t-I-fun mask had almost melted off from the heat. France had been pushing forty degrees Celsius. Glasgow was now a meagre fifteen.

They stare at the green shoulder outside their window. A habit. Look left and listen to your muse. But the green slope is asleep. They must do this alone.

Five minutes pass. They play with the few words they’ve put down. Another habit. You are stupid. No one has ever told them this, yet they hear it more days than not. They look outside their window again. What am I doing? It is true that they are sceptical, doubtful even, that this exercise will… what’s the word? It’s like grow, or blossom, but more sophisticated. . . They spend another five minutes searching through a thesaurus and forget what they were doing. Yield. The word is not right, but time cannot always wait for what’s right.

The writer wonders whether this suggestion, planted in their mind by another writer, might actually be worth something. After all, it is rare that they can put words down without wanting to erase them from the page. Keep your hopes DOWN. Once does not a habit make. But they never could shake off that naive optimism they developed as a child. Bitter, yes. Untrusting, of course. Dubious of the motivations of those around them, always. But deep down, they still wiggle their toes as they fall asleep and dream about being the person they secretly know they are. A writer.