So, here I am.
I have limited time to my tea to drink and pick up my car sharer. I have no Barry Manilow collection so I’m stuck for in-car-entertainment. Perhaps I should just resign myself to another story of The Hundred. Sounds all Greek doesn’t it? It’s a walk that he does every year, a talk he does everyday, a wet-dream of what could have been; he has failed to finish it on the last two occasions.
Talk of walk it is then.
Again the moggy. She is as predictable as a car-sharer’s mutter. Up at three-thirty and ready for her stroll. Me back to bed dressed in Zoro mask but not so kinky. The mask keeps out the light, gives me chance to resnooze.
I have been practising my mind-clearing with little success. Last night (this morning) it was my book jumping in and out of the sheets. “Do this,” “Do that,” it was shouting. I’m working on it. I’m working on it. The truth is that I am bloody working on it and it has surprised me.
I found the book in the digital cellar. It’s been there for quite some time; years and years. If there is dust down there, it was covered in it. I think it was the ashes of disappointment, resignation, acceptance. But I’m reading it again with aim of getting it ready for potential literary agents, and I’m loving it.
I never thought that a book could be like a bottle of vintage wine. I never thought that they could be laid down in order to rest and collect themselves. I failed to understand that some books take time to mature and the potential readership does so too.
It’s a cracking little narrative, all dystopian, young love(ian), a rock an roll ride(ian). It’s also bright and clever. it has a voice and that voice shouts, ‘Read Me!’ I can’t wait to get back inside its pages.
Final Exams with failure not an option. Boy meets boy who is really a girl. The waters are rising and the only safe place is safe no longer. Sink or swim. Run!