Every writer knows that writing is an act of choice. There is a moment during the mundanity of the morning, when you glimpse a movement out the corner of your eye, and you know that the fairies have arrived. Despite any plans that you had for your day, you must write the words they give you, lest they drive you nuts, or worse, go away and take with them that feeling of magic that writing from that place brings.
I have discovered the true purpose of my cat: to bring me the world of nature when I am unable to go outside myself. Whether it be the smell of fresh soil on her paws, a layer of early morning fog on her fur, or a cicada in her mouth, she seeks to share with me her excitement about the joys of the garden
It is a dark and stormy morning (sorry Snoopy). It is days like these that I like to write. There is something cosy about letting your imagination go while the raindrops run down the windowpane and the house creaks in the wind. My hot chocolate and I feel so safe here, despite the surrounding whirlwind of clouds and ideas.
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Every Monday I wind the pendulum clock in the lounge. Perhaps my husband’s grandmother used to do the same thing – six turns of the key. Often our lives continue like this – regular, filled with casual rituals, and a mundane safety.
My mother asked me today if I would like a life-size polystyrene giraffe — she has one in her basement. How do you answer a question like that?
“In happy hours, when the imagination wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy to be uplifted on its wings, and listen to the prophetic voices in the air that call us onward.” – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Like most of my articles, this blog is about everyday life, but other more serious stuff too – like removing devious people from your Christmas card list; how sitting down with a cup of tea and a book can help you get your chores done; and most importantly, how changing a duvet cover could ultimately become an Olympic sport.
Wendy Maddison (Writer) 