I wrote a little story last year. It was about music and its potential power and beauty. It explored the terrifying notion of how it might feel to exist without music in our world. It was a tender little piece. … it had magic, for all its lightness and air. It had depth.
There were many moments over the last few months when I wished I’d been on time. Then one moment gathered all those moments. When I needed it most, I was there.
time is a river
I put markers in
like stepping stones
Some days, I wonder why I write stories. Is it to get published? Yep. Can’t deny that one. Is it to be read and heard, and maybe loved? Oh, yes. But why does it make me ache if I don’t?
Where you might see softness, I can find strength. Where you think you’ve found weakness, I can see depth.
Hearing music, being able to play it, singing it beautifully or singing it as if no-one else exists in the world. Tapping it out, hearing it as you run your fingers along a fence, sensing it in the pulse of another. Feeling it. It all blends to a sweet and personal harmony.
The Allusionist is frequently surprising, subversive and powerful. This episode was an early, shining example.
My first book. Beginning, middle, end. First draft, second draft, final draft. Darlings killed, darlings slayed. Done.
Memory is weak, like water. It is strong, like waves.
People sometimes say that names don’t hold meaning. That they don’t define you. But they can. And in the age of the internet, usernames are an opportunity to add meaning to who you are.