I sit with these 'real' writers feeling quietly slightly inadequate. I have books to write, stories to tell with the quiet litany of 'no you can't', 'no you can't' still yapping at my heals like a faded angry wet eyed old ladies chihuahua. Too small to cause any real pain, its teeth have mostly fallen out now, but bloody annoying all the same. I've given myself this gift of a writers' retreat to show me that I believe in myself.
'I'd like you to write some words'
Hmm, ok think I, pretty easy so far. Scribble, scrawl. Done.
'Now I'd like you to swap your written words with your partner and write a ten minute short story using your writing partner's words' comes the instruction from teacher Barbara.
As I allow panic to almost seize my hand rendering it useless, a calm comes over me and someone else slips in, someone with no patience for my mucking about, someone who loves me enough to stop me sabotaging myself. My muse.
She takes those words from my partner. Mario, coma, Angela and writes...
Mario rubbed his bloodshot eyes gently, head pounding its own accusing pulse inside his skull. A heavy night out with his mate Steve, over from Israel for the weekend, the cause of his pain. One too many whiskies making itself known on his body.
After qualifying from Shefield Medical University years earlier they had parted ways in totally different medical directions but stayed in close touch. This last visit had Steve trying once again to persuade Mario away from his buzzing, vibrant New York city hospital life to volunteer with the Red Cross. That hippy trippy bullshit wasn't for Mario though, he loved the fast pace of bright lights and unpredictability of his job here.
Jolted from his reminiscing over the previous evening by the beep beep of life support machine, indicating the poor bitch lying on the bed in front of him was still alive. But barely.
The officers who'd brought in her battered body reported she had been 'in the wrong place at the wrong time'. The drunk taxi driver veering out of control around the corner just as Angela Bennet had chosen that moment to cross the road.
From the state of her Mario wasn't sure she'd pull through. Maybe a blessing in disguise for her though, he mused to himself. Judging by the look on the two men's faces in the waiting room opposite the critical care ward.
The two men, who until this morning had been blissfully unaware of each other's existence, sat in uneasy silence facing each other in uncomfortable leatherette chairs. Aggression filling the air, the atmosphere so thick and palpable several relatives and friends of other patients had stepped into the room only to leave again swiftly.
Joel, the softer looking of the two men eyed the hulking frame of the man in front of him.
'Angela doesn't have a brother, so who the fuck are you really?'..........
'Ok, time's up' says teacher Barbara. I'm shaken out of my fantasy land and realise I've been writing.
I'm a writer, I write stories, don't you know :-). Donna hangs out and creates here
News from the Muse
These posts are a mixture of information, interviews and tips for writers and those who are interested in getting published.
I also write about my back and the road to recovery and something might resonate with others in pain and maybe my discoveries will help.
Overall it seems that I prattle.
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