This Writer Has Always Been A Snot-Nosed Kid

At four in the morning loves drowsiness still lasts. I come to my study to say farewell to the world of reality, all its pain, its sordid terror, markets and virus’ and breathe a new world onto the page…turning silence into words and make the whirling world stand still.

I’ve been writing, late into the night, the story of a pirate, not a torn and weary traveler of the high seas, but a character who has given rise to passions, sailing into the crimson sunset of a woman’s heart, not caring where his journey will end.

My mind is in torment, the creativity, and the knowledge that what I’m writing is cliché after cliché. You know what I mean, right?

The pirate will once again polish old bones before raising them in the rigging as a warning to those who treasure only gold, he will hurl himself at the world in a defiant storm of laughter and cry one last time…Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!

Really? What possesses me to write this shit? A love of romance, a character I can put this dumb heart into? Sure, some of that.

This writing heartbreak means so little in the eons of time. What I, each of us, gives up to unread literature cannot be judged by its value, but by what it gives back to the writer, to me.

I have such a need to write, to explore, to listen, to say, to put so much down. I’m deeply fascinated in the worlds I create, so gifted with expectation. This is what I am. When I’m not writing, I’m less. So, I keep going.

Will the phantom come, or a saviour? No…for what I create is only that of a snot-nosed kid coming from nowhere, or Gants Hill, scaling tree limbs as if the rigging of a pirate ship, fearing nothing, the eternal night watchman of hope caught in the branches of a tree beneath a clear blue sky.