Words require writing, about a specific context which requires freezing at a particular moment while maintaining a suggestion of movement, constancy. Like a photograph, of sorts. These words have been scattered across the blog recently, and now additional ideas have been noticed as buds from these seeds, and should be cultivated. The problem of course is my own motivation. Sometimes the garden appears far more hassle to endure the sun, or the rain, or the liklihood of mud under the fingernails. Or the small of fish, blood, and bone. Or the certain discovery of worms or woodlice or ants.
Otherwise, words do not require writing. As I walked across the bridge over a flyover, no thoughts of flinging myself off without so little as a note came into the head. Nor did I wonder if there was any real significance in the constant cackling of magpies [overhead] or laughing children [unseen].
No intention either to write the big grand novel which has been burbling away in a constant commentary in the back of my mind for more years than I care to confess outside of a controlled environment. Currently I consider how actually brilliant a writer must be to find the time to gather together a managable number of characters, the situation these characters are to be placed, the start-middle-end of their story arc, and the inevitable twist to be found in life as commonly as it is to be found in fiction. My words dry up, unable to catch up with my imagination, which inevitably fails to continue along its own path for long anyway: echoes of second or third chapters are to be found suddenly (but always certainly) in known material.
Now are the days and months of different kinds of material, to specific audiences, rather than no audience at all, and I cannot always conduct myself well in this regard. And also this is the time when my claims are challenged in a real court. My confidence has always been found wanting: today, the wind howls specific words on its way from an open window to the underneath of my bedroom door.