"The heat from the room vanishes, and the fireplace holds nothing but stone cold coals..."
14
Annabelle Carvell: The past few months have presented the worst case of writers' block so far. Perhaps now having graduated, writing seems more real - I feel I've been given permission to call myself 'a writer' and not hide behind the title of 'student.' I've found that now I have no guidelines, no lectures and no frequent workshops, writing requires new attention. Much like riding a bike, writing never goes away - but leave it for too long and the next couple of times may present a wobbly ride.
Give writing your attention, and stoke the coals of your creative fire to keep it ablaze.
It’s past midnight. You rub your furrowed brow in despair – one whole hour has passed, and you can account for each single ‘tick-tock’ of the great grandfather clock which parents a pokey lounge. The screen's glare burns your irises, a dehydrated lump is beginning to congeal in your throat, and you have forgotten how long you have been sitting with music-less headphones on your ears. Your tongue releases from your soft palate, sticky and warm, and it dawns on you – the page remains blank. The heat from the room vanishes, and the fireplace holds nothing but stone cold coals.
You’ve not written, truthfully, in months. Digging deep, the lies upon lies emerge, the branches forking out becoming longer and longer. They lattice and split, and you are left with a cracked Winter ash, diseased until you pull it from its roots. Yes, you edited a poem written back in April, and yes, you altered that story that came so easily in May. But truthfully, you’ve not written in months.
‘Inspiration’ has escaped you. The questions begin to unravel, the roll of ribbon falls at your feet with frayed edges. Is it the change of environment? Is it the long, dark days of Winter confusing both you and the grandfather clock in that pokey lounge? As your hands turn cold, the answer falls as easily as November rain:
You have escaped ‘inspiration.’
McEwan ends up in your hands. Each leaf of paper lifts, flicking over, animated like some children’s feature film. You are mesmerised and muse over the very structure, the metaphors, the subtext – the words. They swirl in front of you, sparking off an organised fire display in your head. Themes, characters, storylines dance in your mind’s cinema, setting light to strings of text, soaked in literary petrol. The film reel is turning, the picture – vibrant.
A rush of blood to your fingertips and they glow hot and red. The grandfather clock’s ticking fades to an orange glow. The fire springs to life, and you take care, this time, to stoke its embers.