There were several of these moments, for me, in the last week; ‘The Week that They Were Writers’.
The first, came at the climax of our 12 hour drive, where, sitting at the end of the garden, by the tumultuous loch, shadowed by the ridge of the escarpment, we stretched, and breathed, and laughed.
Picture the frolicsome writers, here, as they realise that they are free to be themselves. This manifested itself in a peculiar way, even for us:
“I spy… Something beginning with ‘S’.”
“Seaweed?”
“Nope.”
“Swimming seagull?”
“Nope.” After several minutes of this, Rachel sighed. “It’s everywhere. Look up!”
Sarah bounced in triumphant inspiration “Clouds?”
(It was at this point, amidst the peals of laughter, that I thought ‘Fuck! There’s no hope for the world if a writer cannot even recognise the phonetics of her alphabet’, and suddenly, I relaxed, more than I have done since Borneo)
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The following morning, awaking to perfect Scottish rain, and the sea lapping at the window (almost), I looked out of the window and I knew. I am the luckiest person alive.
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Writing was slow, to start, as I was ashamedly rusty at actually responding to the muse with more than scribbled notes. But then, I constructed a mini-tale entirely on the act of eating cake, entitled: Don’t mess with the Crazies, You Never Know What They Might Do, Or, The cake is evil as well as masochistic, it forces us to eat it with its domineering frown. And I saw that it was good. I may post it at Progressions.
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The Day they Let the Writers Loose.
The day they let the writers loose was a dark, and dismal day. The wind did howl, and trees did bend, and small sheep blew away. The writers they did gambol, exultant as they breathed fresh air, and stories rested for a while; though their fingers found it rather odd that the laptop keyboards were not there. And as they gazed out through the trees, at choppy waters far below, the locals spied them standing there and longed for them to go. For the crazy writers were a sight they did not wish to see; with wild hair, dishevelled looks and crazed expressions in the eye. The locals hid behind their doors, until the writers passed them by.
The writers, as they walked, they talked their cares away, barely noticing the clouds, which barraged them with drops of grey. The day they let the writers loose, they had a lot of fun; all singing and all dancing until their walk was done. The day they let the writers loose, was a dark, and dismal day; but to them it didn’t matter, as they wandered out, to play.
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Upon this escapade, I heard this tale. (Credit goes to Joe Knowler, in his infinite wisdom, and to Rachel for passing it on.) It is, quite possibly, the best story known to humankind…
Mum collected Rachel and Ed from school, with Joe in the buggy beside them, and the two excited children began swapping stories as they walked home.
Suddenly, a voice sprang from the buggy.
“Once ‘Pon Time.”
This hopeful, solemn voice was met with joyous wails. “The baby’s telling us a story: Tell us a story, Joe!”
“Once ‘Pon Time…” Joe began, in his best storytelling tone, “was a mummy, an’ a baby, an’ a monster…” long pause. “Munch. Crunch.”
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I rediscovered, during our return, that Rachel and I, when together, can make a joke of anything. For instance… Where are the houses? Why, where the houses are, of course. It was also on this day of adventure, that I decided I must return, for a much longer period of writing, somehow. Ardaneaskan’s good for me, and even better for my concentration and my style.
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It was not all fun and games however,(although much of it was: we even provided Pythonesque Comedy Hour for the Waterside café in Lochcarron) and we did do serious writing, honestly. I doubled the length of Blood Omen, and made plans to further it, thanks to helpful criticism from my fellow yarn-weavers. And I made Rachel cry. I do feel slightly guilty that, upon realising this, I did a victory-jig in my head, whilst chanting ‘I made my best friend cry. Woohoo!’ (Sorry, Rach!).
Markulon, Prolific Writing Superhero that he is, wrote, 36,000 words, nearly all of them brilliant, and all from reputable sources. He scratched off several short stories, one of which forced a lump to my throat as I read. And he tactfully avoided working on his novel.
And Rachel: She Who Could Not Write, produced from nowhere an onslaught of 50 word story-cards, each with the week’s theme… eaten, and then proceeded to write an awesome creepy tale; the longest(twice as long as the previous longest piece), best thing she has ever spawned. It has everything! I still have to pen it for her.
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It occurred to me during the week, that I am, first and foremost, a writer. And perhaps, the stressful job I hold in order to save for my travels, is not worth it. I may have to find a boring, undemanding job and take the longer route to gaining money, just so that I can concentrate upon my work.
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There was plenty more, but it shall remain undisclosed, for the sake of you, the reader’s sanity. Suffice it to say that it was the best week in a long time. Due thanks must go to both Rachel and Mark, who made it what it was. And, more so, to Mark, who single-handedly drove us there and back,(thanks, Mark, for all the effort and stiffness and pain!).
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