I’ve been sitting in the garden, snatching the sun that counts as a English summer, trying to come up with something – but, without mucho rethinking and mucho-mucho work, ‘Shipwreck’ is done for me. However, in the notebook I was using to jot down my Sunday scribble*, I came across some free writing I’d done three years ago almost to the day – and thought I’d share it, unedited and so ‘free’, with you:
Words words words: words pulse through my brain like electricity and every so often one shocks me – an electric shock that tells me I am alive, I am a reader, I am a writer. Words are like the feathers in a bird’s nest, comforting, downy, recognisable, familiar. Words are strong, I am strong with words. What if I couldn’t communicate? What would I do without words?
But there will always be an absence of something.
And yet there is always the appearance of something else. When I came to these pages, I had no idea what would fill them, and here I am, writing, feeling the pen across the page, lift, dip, smooth, sharp, stroke, roll, write, caressing the paper, this intimate dance we have.
And maybe it’s all I need to feel my pen across my page and know words are filling the space in ways I didn’t expect, didn’t anticipate; ways that surprise me, please me. Ways that will lead to a meaningful paragraph, or idea or connection.
It is the beginning.
*I hasten to add that this Sunday isn’t without any scribbling at all – after dinner, I will be working on the beginnings of poem number four in my sequence of eight – but the theme is alchemy/apprenticeship rather than shipwreck/pirate...or at least, it is at the moment...!