Writers’ Blokke
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Writers’ Blokke

Wanting to Write Haunts You for Life

On fleeting floodlight dreams

Photo by Timo Wagner on Unsplash

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.



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