Wow. I came prepared with cloths, brushes and a mop, but it’s even worse down here than I imagined. ‘Tales’ is cold and dark, and my feet leave deep prints in the filthy, fluffy dust. No one’s graced this basement for so long, there are swathes of limp, matted cobwebs hanging from every word, and the damp musty smell of dreams in various states of decay.
And where have I been, ‘Tales’ trusty custodian, keeper of its hopes, to let it slide into such a state as this?
Where haven’t I been?
I’ve been everywhere but here. I’m not a writer any more, you see. I finished the novel and decided I didn’t have anything left to say. My friends read it and I sent it out half-heartedly, but I didn’t really care if it was published or not. I soul searched into the deepest recesses of my mind and was horrified by the monstrous things festering in there. I realised my wanting to write was the manifestation of a ghastly, ugly neediness, so I stopped, because I didn’t want to be needy any more.
(photo courtesy of etftrends.com)
If only it were as easy as that.
I’ve stopped writing. I’m not a writer any more. I never will be one of those clever, well-read people with their original thoughts, refreshing ideas and witty way with words, holding the world in awe of their gift. I needed to stop dreaming; I needed to stop pretending. Oh, and I needed a rest from ‘when are you going to get a proper job?’
So I’m not a writer any more, and that’s why ‘Tales’ is in such a state.
I’m not a writer.
Now, where did I put the duster?