Saturday came up soon, way too soon actually. I fought it for about seventeen minutes, but as the dawn kicked in there really was no point to remain hidden by the covers. I kicked them off, hoping to wake up leisurely since it was weekend, but the next turn was fatal: at 7:17AM, as witnessed by the alarm clock, I got up and went into the daily routine of washing and dressing. No shave, because I usually skip that on the weekends, since there are no complaints from my daughters anyway. Being the grownups that they are, we quit kissing ages ago. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to hug them every now and then, but young ladies of their age find such things distasteful, especially when their dad is concerned….
Besides, they’re not here this weekend, so I went down for my morning coffee, after having given the washer something to do. As it spun contentedly, I sat down and continued where I’d left off a few nights ago: adding to the six pages that at some point will be called my third novel.
Like John Miles, I have a love too, had it for as long as I can remember. It grew around the time I was as old as my daughters are now, and became a condition that had me cycling up and down to the local library for years on end. I love the way words fit together to provide meaning, the taste they make when combined just the right way. I don’t speak that many languages fluently, just Dutch and English, but I still love the very distinct characters of several languages I don’t speak. Italian and Japanese come to mind, but hearing Lafee perform her magic in German is an experience all by itself.
As I sat there working, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Not that I was bored or anything, but by the time nature called for a toilet break, and the silence upstairs indicated that the washer had done its chore, my page count was already well into the twenties! I paused, hung the laundry to dry, grabbed another coffee and went at it again: feeling my way through the sentences as if they were already there, and I was sensing their presence and copying them down, rather than making up a story as I went along.
By lunchtime I was intimately acquainted with Ashley, the fearless heroin of this tale of impossibility. She felt like a close friend, who actually wouldn’t shut up while I made myself some baked potatoes simply because I felt like it. The novel had grown to around thirty odd pages, and the main adventure had just about begun, when Melanie’s arrival cut my writer’s episode short, to be picked up later this weekend. Mel took my place, and read the start of it, picking off a few typos as she went along.
What is it that has me running back into love with those letters and words? Is it the possibility of endless creation, or the constant hum of Source that manifests itself whenever I’m writing? Sure, I don’t write typical channelings, but my stories contain just as many pointers towards the One as all those New Age gurus. The fun part is, that while writing, I’m never alone. There is me, the creator, and the numerous beings who play their roles in my novels. I know that in the normal world things aren’t any different, but there I feel like an observer looking out of a comfortable cage which I call "Me", whereas writing has me looking into happenings in a way more all-seeing perspective.
By now it’s dinner time, so writing will have to wait. First up is a nice macaroni carbornara, that will probably last me three days. I usually make a whole batch, because one night in the fridge and a few minutes of stir-frying in a wok makes it all that much more yummy!
Love your words, which show up way too infrequently at the moment. It’s as if higher forces have cushioned me from outside interference, so this novel gets out as soon as possible.