In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “All About Me.”
The lens lies on the desk, reflecting the evening light. Since this is the longest day of the year, I have plenty of time still to think of the significance of names: of glass – the lens on this camera, the crystal goblet on the table – and of paper – the paper my pen is scratching, the ultimate battle ground of a writer…
Photography is writing, a play on light and words!
I saw this printed on the side of a small bridge along the Promenade Plantée in Paris. It inspired me: we are always late – again – for someone. Sometime it does not matter, but often it does, it always does if we are late for someone we love and who loves us.
Sleep is one of the great pleasures of life: the one moment we surrender, safely, relax our body, release our pains, and if we sleep alongside a loved companion, the prelude to, or conclusion of, other pleasures.
For us it is a ritual: I am ahead of you, our clocks being slightly out of perfect synch, and when you lie down, I may already be dreaming. It is intended: you have a choice: let jarhead to his dreams, or wake him up for work, that is for love, that is for what you want, as you want it, as is your privilege. But this is about sleep, for now.
You lie naked, nestled against this great bulk of husband, your slender back offered to him, unconscious, but all-knowing. Later you may stretch and spread your legs, and if I happen to be ever so lightly awake, leaning on my elbow, I will admire your intimacy, the cherished treasures of our togetherness. You may then sense my preying, pull the sheet over your body in your sleep, or turn round and, triumphant and bright-eyed, challenge me to prove my devotion: later still, as you lie again deeply asleep, at day break, I will look out at the sunlight playing over the oak trees, from our window, in wonder at this miracle: the geometry of our dreams.
The road was windswept and waves of rain submerged the surface in bends and hollows.
He could not relaxed his attention, there was so much at stake, and this great writer yearned to be right there when it happened.
His skyline’s engine roared through the night, visions of triumph, glory and fame floated through his mind, so much effort, time, blood, and, yes, tears.
As in a dream he thought of her, his muse, his lover, his wife.
He jumped out of the car, climbed the stairs four at a time, panting, the door opened, a familiar face was smiling: “Congratulations! It’s a girl.”
Publishing this blog… if this is not “work in progress” what is?! Hope you enjoy the excerpts, if not I am in trouble… Most of my time is spent on Scrivener but I promise to update this as the journey continues. I am grateful for my followers and fellow writers, please browse the blogroll.
- Book Review: Writing a Novel with Scrivener by David Hewson (laydilejur.com)
- [Sponsor] Scrivener (asymco.com)