There’s a very good chance that I am insane. Of course, the baby is sick, we’ve got plenty of doctors appointments and stress, and it’s almost the end of the school year. What else do I need to do? I need to write a book.
Last time I was this stressed, I got a puppy.
Maybe I’m less insane this time.
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Hannah walked through a darkened field. Barefoot, she felt the grass under her feet, slightly wet and softly spongy. The air was frosty and she saw her breath sparkle in front of her face, although she wasn’t cold. She wasn’t sure where she was going, or why, but she knew something was driving her forwards.
Unwilling now, her feet continued their slow march forwards. The feel of the ground underneath her changed and sharp rocks bruised her soles with every step. She stepped gingerly, afraid to put her feet down, scared of what she might find. Thorns caught at her as she moved and vines trailed up her legs, attempting to pull her down into their midst. She was left bloody and raw as she tried to move away from their grasp.
She struggled on as sprites flew about her head, batting at her face and pulling at her hair. Something tweaked her nose and ran away laughing as she screamed in desperation. The vines had wound around her torso now, leaving her unable to move. Sobbing, she let them pull her feet out from under her and she lay down amongst the stones and thorns. Laughter echoed in the distance as she shut her eyes.
Hannah gave up struggling and pushed herself into the darkness. The world turned on its head and dumped her upside down and screaming through space. For long moments she fell before simply stopping gently and coming to rest.
‘Where …. Where am I?’ she called quietly.
Nothing answered. She hung, suspended in time and space, unseeing and unknowing.
‘Help! Help me! I’m lost!’ she cried desperately.
Slowly the ground coalesced underneath her and she felt softness pillowing her head. Gentle hands stroked her, soothing her tears and hurts.
‘You’re safe now’ they said and Hannah trusted them implicitly.
She relaxed into their care, feeling softer and safer than ever before. The hands that stroked her became firmer until they bound like iron and she couldn’t move. She struggled against them but the more she moved the tighter the binding became. She opened her mouth to scream and nothing came out. Above her someone knelt and looking at her sadly, brought their weight to bear on her eyes. She could feel the pressure building until she thought her head would explode….
***
It’s a work in progress and I’ll probably play with some wording througout today as I reread it here on the blog.
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This place calls to me; silky smooth, I want to trail my hands up and down its length.
Write on me it says as I wander about the house, procrastinating. I need you. You need me. Write on me.
This place of mine that bears my name, I itch to fill it with words. To feel it swell and grow with me, to feel it take on a life of its own. I want to be known. I want people to know who I am, to say, that’s her, she’s a writer. I knew her. I taught her. I helped her birth her baby, I know her and now her name is known.
I want that, but the wanting feels selfish.
***
Open your soul and sell your words. Spew them forth onto the page and scream your story.
It’s not my story though. It’s her story. And she’s gone quiet these last few days, leaving me staring at a word document and longing to feel her breathe down my neck, telling me what to say.
***
I’ve not had a panic attack in a few days. At first, I thought it was a good thing, until I realised that it’s because I am refusing to think anymore. I’m refusing to do anything but cope.
Denying the pain works wonders for the issues arising from it. Long term though, it’s not a pretty sight.
I think that is why she is gone. I can’t feel anything at the moment.
I’m too caught up in coping.
And still this place, it calls to me.
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I open my word document and the words flow like water, out of my fingers and on to the page. The words, they write themselves and I am merely a vessel.
2000 words in 20 minutes and I feel drained, stripped of energy.
It’s been busy here. I keep putting it off, ignoring what I need to do. I sleep and I dream her voice, screaming at me to write her story. I’m merely the conduit for her to spring to life.
She needs more of my time and energy.
I need more of her life.
I need the time to write her out and bring her together. To give her bones flesh and her body soul. I need time to craft her together, to let her take over my life.
And still tonight, I find myself procrastinating.
Again.
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3am and I’m awake, thinking. I’ve just come back from feeding the baby and slowly I’m defrosting, pushed up against my partner’s back. He’s too deeply asleep to push my cold away. For that I’m grateful.
Eyes closed, I craft sentences in my head, running the words over my tongue, silently mouthing them. I play with sentence structure, feeling the words roll around my mouth like jewels.
With concerted effort I pull myself away from my grammatical musings and set my mind to sleeping. Something inside me tells me to get up, to write this down, to sit and in the silence, write.
Instead I pull myself deeper under the covers seeking warmth.
Slowly sleep claims me and I dream of words. Of leaking words like water, dripping like tears.
This is how I know I’m a writer. When I dream the words, when I spend all day thinking about how to write the mundane and make it beautiful. This is how I know.
***
I’ve hit a block in my book. I need to sit and work, but instead I procrastinate. I check my stats, I press send/receive on my email, I let my mind wander away. I stand and closing my laptop, I walk away. To think of something else.
***
Deeper I sink, into the fog. I push myself down into the grey damp depths and there I lay, quiet and waiting. I can almost remember what breathing feels like, here in this fog.
I lay there; stopped.
A touch on my leg brings me gasping to the surface again.
Mummy! she cries and floomp, she sits on my stomach. I pull her down to me and kiss the end of her nose, breathing in the smell of her hair. Laughing, she darts away.
I made that.
How did I make something so beautiful?
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