Someone planted a seed in my brain a few months ago but I didn’t want it there so I picked it out and threw it away.
But a little birdie caught it up in its yellow beak, flew high over my head and let it drop into the mulchy soil that makes up my grey matter. There it has taken root and is beginning to grow, showing tiny, green, unfurling shoots.
But I swear I don’t really want to write a book. I have said before that I don’t have the patience, the time, the imagination. And I have also said that my bum hurts way too much after only an hour or so of sitting writing. Why would I possibly imagine that I could undertake the massive task of putting together my thoughts, setting them down, chopping through them with a scythe, and finally sending them out there?
Simply because the little seed is in there now. It’s being watered by the many droplets of words that drip through my brain. It’s being fertilised by comments, remarks, pushes, nudges and big pokes from those around me. And it’s being nurtured by a deep-seated desire to hold my own work in my hands and turn the crackly, new pages with a sly, little smirk of pride on my face.
You’ll have noticed this is all about me, me, me. But of course there is also a niggling hunger in there to be read. And to be enjoyed. By someone, somewhere, out there in this ever bigger universe of writing.
So I have completed the prologue. One sheet of words that had me, at least, chuckling to myself as they fell out onto the page.
It’s a beginning. And isn’t that where we all must start?
The first chapter is in there somewhere, just waiting to sprout…