This writing lark has always been an odd thing for me. An odd, emotional thing. A spiritual thing. I consider myself quite a spiritual person and maybe that’s why I analyse and analyse everything, always wanting it to be perfect – but of course it never is, never can be.
I know we’re supposed to develop a routine. I know we’re supposed to do what Stephen King said – make sure we turn up on time, day after day, and trust that the muse will join us. But I’m not like that. Or at least I am some of the time. But sometimes I need to feel it before it can happen.
And I’ve been doing this thing long enough now to know myself and my strange little ways. I know that as September comes I feel a surge. It could be because years ago that was when the children went back to school after the summer break, and I felt like I could finally be alone with my thoughts for a while. Or it could be from when we lived in Australia and September was the start of Spring and renewal, not Autumn and sleep. Whatever it is, I feel it approaching.
I hate the summer. Yes, it’s nice to have the long days and occasionally it’s warm enough to go out without a coat, but basically from the middle of June until the end of August, I want to hibernate. I feel stressed. I feel overblown, like a rose about to lose its petals.
But when September comes, it’s such a relief…
Because today I feel it – what I’ve been waiting for, half-afraid it would never come. There’s a new book in me – like being pregnant – I feel it stirring. It’s like something unseen moving just beneath the surface of a pond. Something is out there and it’s drawing closer. Anticipation and excitement fill me. I know it’s going to happen. It will all fall into place. My raison d’etre. I feel it.
Ideas are coming. Snatches. Phrases. Images. Words. I feel the urge to start. Maybe I’ll start. Shall I start? Is it to soon? Should I start now? Or wait? Um… I think maybe I’ll start now.