Wanting to Write Haunts You for Life
On fleeting floodlight dreams
I’m done with writing clickbaity opening lines.
This article is about a dream. You don’t have to read it, but I suspect my dream mirrors yours.
On this Sunday morning sidewalk, Heathfield Drive is still and sunny, as I try to summon my creative faculties and usher them into some semblance of a flow state.
For the last few weeks, I did no such thing. Expecting words to just appear out of thin air, like Kante at the bridge.
I also lacked time, but not excuses.
My dream isn’t even hidden deep within anymore. I found it a few years ago with my first utterances on Medium — a pile of drivel — but drivel that can be developed nonetheless.
Now it’s there when I walk down Colliers Wood high street with a rucksack on my back full of shopping from Sainsbury's, and a non-recyclable, orange plastic bag filled with shopping from Aldi, in my right hand.
It’s there each week, watching me from the shadows as I slouch awkwardly on my grey couch watching Liverpool inch agonizingly closer to a mind-blowing quadruple.
It’s there when I peruse intoxicating books and writers, hoping that osmosis works for writers as it does for tiny organisms.
It’s everywhere I look
— can this?
— can that?
— can those?
… be turned into words?
My dream is to publish something worthwhile.
And now I’m off for a haircut.
