I don’t know if its old age, pushing inspiration so far back, but my mind has this large empty space. It keeps telling me I will never write a new novel. That those 400 white pages scare the bejesus out of me.
So, I tell myself, try a novella, as it seems weeks ago when I last held the pencil. It would seem I am only good for short pieces and poetry. These, I still love to do.
Words press against my mind, asking to be written. Late at night, there are different kinds of thoughts. Words that do not want to be read by anyone.
Thoughts I must keep to myself. The kind of things you wouldn’t speak in daylight. They pop up like some kind of evil demon, a black shadow most of us would rather deny. Keeping the beast well caged, we try to get on with the day.
The rains stops, there is a rainbow. Sunlight through your window reminding you of the magic this world has to offer.
Old age disappears for a while. I grab at this new enthusiasm with both hands, wondering what I will make of it.
Watch this space! They are right, old age is just a number.
It’s as loaded as you want it to be…
© Anita Dawes 2021
