Thank you ©BentleyCoon for the pic
The Daily Post prompt is: carry. For once, it hasn’t inspired a poem. ‘Carry’ makes me think ‘burden’. A burden is something we carry that we’d probably much rather dump somewhere and forget about. The annoying thing that makes a burden a burden though is that it’s well nigh impossible to dump it.
I feel that way about writing. When life is more difficult than usual, it presses down like a mass of words, a mountain. When I’m more upbeat and the daily merde is easier to shovel out of the way, writing is more like a torrent that flows down the mountain. Either way, words, phrases, the way they fit together, the stories they tell, are ever-present. They twitter away in an undertone when I’m distracted, but they never really go away.
There are stories to tell, to set down and polish so they gleam. It’s an obligation. Where would they go otherwise? They have claims upon my time that can’t be denied unless I want them to take over from dreams and keep me awake all night. Perhaps if the voices were less insistent, I could step back from the keyboard when the final line of a story is written and say, enough—time to stop writing and do something with what you’ve written. But the final line of one story rarely sits still on the page, content to be the last line. All too often it ferments and bubbles and becomes the germ of the idea behind a new first line. So the stories build up and they sit on the computer setting more seeds. Or they sit on an unmapped amazon shelf like dead stars in a distant galaxy.
I wish I could shed this burden or at least lay it down for a while. I’m supposed to be promoting two three-book series at the moment. I should also be collecting a whole raft of stories together for publication. But there’s a bitter teenage boy and a girl with stars in her eyes insisting that I ignore everything but them.
So why don’t a few thousand kind individuals buy my books so I can get back to Jónsi and Halla? Pretty please?