When I booked my place at the Clunes Booktown Festival, a pocket full of dreams came with me. Crossing uncharted waters, I ventured into the unknown hoping to sell the left over hard copies of Schicksal, my first novel.
I felt a sense of foreboding mixed with excitement. This strange mix of emotions often dawns when a breakthrough is in the wind. The déjà vu unsettled me but I try to stay calm, philosophical and above all open.
Usually I love the autumn, a reprieve from the brazen heat of the summer. This year it came rapidly and the leaves turned within days. A succession of windy days shook left the tree trunks bare, outlined against the blue skies.
The world is tinged with a touch of sadness and unreasonable foreboding plays with my normally cheery predisposition. I am reworking my second manuscript. Words flow onto the page and lap off it.
I’ve been chugging through the past couple of weeks, flat and low. A trip up to Bendigo, to see the Marilyn Monroe exhibition seemed just the thing. The summer temperatures ebbed away and the shade felt cool, pregnant with the coldness of the winter to come.
Autumn leaves along the way boasted their impending demise, bold in the face of death. Maybe they were screaming and I couldn’t hear them.
As writers we rely on the honest opinions of a select few around us. You know them, those patient, loyal souls who listen to our ramblings as the characters and plot emerge out of the unknown onto the page. They love us.
Here we go again
gaining inspiration from the world.
On the ground
in random places
I find a pencil, perfect.
Then an other.
I have a book in my brain.
The aura is misty and the idea vague.
It rumbles around inside me, bumping into bits of me,
Sometimes my hear flutters, sometimes my stomach churns.
Writing is one of my passions. It tests me. While out on my morning walk, I let my mind wander, looking for some inspiration to share with you. The three words, hope, faith and charity kept popping into my head.
I wondered about their relevance in the life of an author. Schicksal tested my faith. My new book tests it again.
When I hear the word crone, connotations of an wizened, wrinkly, old lady fill my imagination. Where did this perception come from? Surely a lifetime of conditioning has filtered through into my consciousness forming this idea leading me to pose the question; is it correct?
On Sunday evening the fog of an impending head cold snuffed out my optimism. The blasted thing possessed a life akin to a chemical fire retardant; lofty intention stalled.
In the fog I stumble calling uncertainly, ”Enthusiasm where are you?”
It hides away like a naughty child with the Nutella jar and a teaspoon.