(The long and short of it)
The story begins – words chasing ideas. Letters rise up as the bars to my cage. It has been eight years of manic impressions, the ink and the void.
I am trapped by the word. The story grips me, it won’t let me go. Characters
appear as ghosts across the page. I hear their stories in the shuffle of paper, the forlorn passing of years. They whisper in my ear, expressing their dilemmas; their loves and heartbreaks. I write from an incessant need to know.
I stare at the blank page; the white abyss. I see them all there – they wait
for me, for the keystroke to appear. I spin their lives from ribbons of ink, the
typewriter chattering to me in laughter. The more that I give to them the less that I am, disguised beneath the thinly veiled pseudonym of author. I live through reflection.
I hold their attention for as long as I can. The connection is a contradiction of
means. The closer I become the more disconnected I am to the world around me. They vanish onto the page, a window into another life. Disposed, I am left to
roam, creating as I go. Yet there are rules to this universe of thought – verbs,
adjectives, founded on solid prose. I punctuate their lives with commas and
apostrophes. I turn whispers into a shout!
Yet I am not the true author of fate here. The characters create their own lives.
They impel me to give them voice. They turn my mind to their tasks. It is their hopes and dreams my work embodies…
I write until there is only me. The story has ended, a world transcribed. My
journey ends here with the tiniest of marks – the full stop.