The Real Heroes

If I just turn over maybe I can get comfortable. Comfortable and warm would be good. Why are my feet still cold? They never used to be cold. I always had warm hands and feet. It was other people who had cold feet. Not me. I was warm. Naturally warm. And now it’s sick and sore and full of aches with despair in my bones and a heart full of angst. Angst is good though. You can use angst. Put it down on the page. Sit at the desk in the little room with no window and write the word angst on the screen and then you’re away. All you need is a way to start and anyone who is creative knows the silent terror when ideas just aren’t there and you can’t find the next creative thing to do. That’s angst. There’s so much sadness in the world. So much loss on the TV. Sadness and loss, and cold feet and being scared you won’t have anything to write about when you sit down to write something. It’s fear. Naked, raw, powerful fear. Fear that you might have lost what you had. That maybe you were good. That maybe you wrote something pretty good once, but that you might, possibly, not be able to write anything good ever again. Which is really fear of fear. Because you can’t write anything when you’re in bed, wondering if you should have slept more, wondering if you will sleep more, wondering if you’re wasting the day and if perhaps the morning is your most imaginative time, but your back hurts and the sheets don’t seem as thick as they used to and the cold is creeping in at the top of the bed, through the tiny gaps around your neck, despite desperate efforts to seal off your body from the elements. Fear that it will be even colder when you get out and make a cup of tea and put on your dressing gown and address yourself to the immense problem of making a new story from nothing, just your brain, something new, from somewhere inside you, and this is the real fear that you see on the TV. Rubble where buildings once were and sirens sounding and all those bodies, and that place in your back where it feels like someone has kicked you, quite hard, in the ribs, even though no one has kicked you in the ribs at all, and it hurts sometimes, a lot, and how can you sleep, how can you sleep in and wake up fresh and ready and do some good creative writing when you are gripped by these things? When the fear is on you and in you and you doubt yourself so much. Tea is good. Black and strong and hot, and that will warm you up and you will feel a lot better, perhaps, with tea inside you and sipping more tea, but not so much that it makes you want to go the toilet. It’s bad when you have to keep going to the toilet. You can’t get on a roll then. That’s no way to create. But you won’t sleep again now, you know that, and you are practically up and out of bed, although technically still in the bed, under the thin covers, with a sore back and feet which feel unaccountably cold. And so you make your first big decision of the day and move back the covers.

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Published in: on August 13, 2014 at 7:55 pm  Leave a Comment  

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