Getting even more frustrated lately with my writing. Stories that open themselves to such potential are wrapped gloriously in words but tied in streams of boredom that prohibit entry. The gift remains unwritten and unseen.
There is a line we come to in a story where we can back up, or boldly cross. The line may be a wall that’s climbable, or smooth and flat without a foothold. What binds us to reality so firmly that we fear to take up pickaxe?
I feel as if the years were spent in walking the perimeter, exploring and learning the context of the wall. I’ve paid smugglers to help me across but need something else, something within me that challenges the border that reality has built in my mind. I feel as if at long last I’ve come to a doorway, an easy and intellectual entry to all I know is offered, all I want to do or be, but reach out and try the knob to find it firmly set.
What fear holds me here, dully standing just one side of dreams. I touch the concept, feel the frame and see the cracks where light flows through and yet I look behind me for the shove that may just pass me through. Or even realistically in self-sufficient motive, the tools.
Where, I wonder, is the key?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology