The desk light shines its beacon across the top, where the PC lies open at a site called The Moth. The china mug with horses rests on a coaster, a treasured legacy from my late father. Insomnia grips me like an ancient affliction, and yet, it seems the best time for new creation.
The artistic mind fights its battles on so many fronts, like armchair generals, always willing to retreat or is it advance? At Writers Circle last evening, we plotted novels and opening passages, prose to stimulate & excite, characters fleshed out, plotlines made more concise.
A disposable fountain pen now sits in my hand, symbol of short-term society at a glance,the retractable pencil is banished to the pot, while I try to least give this new technology its chance. Essay, poem, sketch or short story, which genre should I turn my mind to tonight?I turn on iplayer for some much needed inspiration, seeking something a little less topical in flavour. Politics is so sterile today nobody trades real insults anymore; “Debate” is all about sound bites crafted solely for the 24hr news, not sure for what they intend: to inform, or to amuse?
Perhaps I will write a poem, a short concise verse, a few musings on those loved oneswho have passed to their eternal rewards, while those who are left, return to the grind knowing they are still being watched from heaven above. The screensaver appears, my Grandson, Michael, resplendent in his Ladies Man Sweater, now nine months old and already trying to walk, memories of his father in years past, a new generation to bear the family name, a lot to live up to; God willing, he’ll be equal to the task.
It is 03:30, and only the scratching of my pen can be heard against the enveloping silence;I sketch out ideas, checks lengths of verse and use of iambic pentameters, even the creaking of old floorboards cannot disturb my literary thrall. They say the darkest hour is before the dawn, but at least the moonless sky guards against distractions. At last I feel the arrival of welcome slumber, so I put down my pen and close the book.
Fortune indeed may favour the brave, but only when you’re lucid enough to join in that number.
Black Country Londoner 