For weeks now I have met with friends and spoken to writing colleagues about my writers block.
I always have something to say but I had not been able to scribe recently. No, putting mind into gigabytes , the new version of pen to paper, I guess.
I even tried to motivate myself and others after a meeting with close friend and literary success Robin Barratt, and wrote on the BWC Facebook wall his suggestion, " that just 500 word a day written in my current novel would add 3500 words to the novel per week"... words, words words, I heard them but they did nothing, I could not even motivate myself.
So weeks have gone by and there have been no postings to blogs, no additions to books, all 3 non-fiction and all 6 fiction novels have all sat in the "man cave" just waiting...so have I.
I look at them every day, move them around the desk, flip through the printed pages, even occasionally open the laptop and click on the file...but then coffee needs to be made, MTV is playing something good on cable or a flicker of light outside the penthouse windows takes my attraction. Papers, books and files all get forgotten for another day.
Yesterday, I went to the monthly meeting of the Bahrain Writers Circle. For a hermit and nomad like me, it was the outing of the week. I hoped I'd get motivation for words, at worst I wanted to try to Gluten Free Muffins at the cafe we were meeting at .
The muffins were awesome.
During the evening we where given a piece of paper, it was a "motivational tool" they stated.
Internally I rolled my eyes,"thinking silently, it won't work-nothing does anymore"
I looked at it, the photo on the page, I folded it and tucked it away. The evening went on with speeches and talks and I came home and sat in front of the laptop. No words again.
Epic failure, except for the muffins.
Then of course I tried to go to sleep and all I could think of was the photo on the piece of paper we had been given, and old park bench, weather beaten and empty.
It looked so sad, it looked full of promise, it looked intriguing and slightly dangerous in a spy kind of way.
So at 3am this morning I went to the "Man cave"- (my office for the uninitiated), found the piece of paper from jeans pocket and finally read the words upon it
"this is a Writing Prompt"( 30 minutes of writing to get you in the mood) or story starter, for when you sit staring at the computer with nothing to write."
Under neath the photo of the forlorn bench it asked,
" Two people meet here every day. Who are they and why do they meet?"
The following are the words that filled my head for thirty minutes and were saved to the laptop at 3.35am this morning;
My wife and I once heard that it took twenty eight days for
something to become a habit.
It was in relation to
a diet she was hoping to start, I think. Perhaps one she desired me to start, I’m
not sure now.
In any case we thought we’d test the limits to the theory before
being so fool hardy as to start something as short term as a diet, and so after
work for twenty eight evenings we met in the local park to discuss our day, to
muse on life and to enjoy the early breathes of dusk and the deepening sighs of
a day concluded. Talking and day discussed we would then walk home together
hand in hand.
Over grown with reeds, weathered and in need of love; just
like the two of us, our meeting place in the park was a pair of old weathered
park benches.
The daily meeting ignited new life into our love for one
another and after a while we forgot keeping track of the number of days that
had passed, it indeed just became habitual.
We looked forward to meeting there, before walking home
together. It gave us a meeting place free of the worlds trivialities.
It was neither home nor work, this was freedom and freedom
ruled.
Rain, hail, shine; we met there.
No cell phones, no friends, just my wife and I and our
thoughts.
If one was late the other would wait. No one would leave
without the other, we always held the faith that the other would arrive, and we
always did.
The benches were ours. A place to sit and talk freely, about
life, our work, our fears, our hopes, our continued dreams.
On those park benches we found a freedom few couples ever
have. At work we were professionals, at home we were husband and wife, on cell
phones we were short and words were emotionless, but on those park benches we
were friends, lovers, two people who adored one another; we told each other
everything.
My wife has been gone now for more than ten years, and as
they say, habits are hard to kick.
I still meet my wife on that park bench every afternoon
after work. We laugh, we reminisce, we dream and she chastises me for things I
have not lived up to and more often than not; I just cry.
Over grown with reeds, weathered and in need of love those
park benches may be, but they hold so much beauty and to my wife and I, they are
where love blooms eternal.
THE END
Sometimes, being a hermit is amazing. And then there are days I meet other people and learn things, like "writing prompts".
As you can tell words are flowing again, and for that I thank everyone.
I love the world of words, I love losing myself inside of a good story wether reading one or writing one and "I truly feel lost in life if I can't escape into unreality"... that last sentence is just begging me to take it and write a novel based upon it, and with that thought flowing through my brain, I know the words are back..
Thank you BWC and the creative juices that flow through you, your inspiration is appreciated.
See you again soon
