The Wedding Guest. Trusting in our own creative pace - and principles.

I’d like you to imagine you’re at a wedding with some of the very best people you know, or just know of. People who because of their talent or just their humanity deserve, in your mind anyway, to fill concert halls. Imagine them all standing around chatting, enjoying the late afternoon sun, a sparkling flute in their hands, while light music wafts gently across the lawn.

Walking away from book reviews and the bestsellers list.

I have a confession to make. I hoard books like they might never be printed again. I collect the ones with broken backs and pages stained like tea. They won’t be politically correct most of them and I may never even read them, but they at least have a new home, safe to gather dust for the rest of their long lives.

That is the question and the answer might surprise you.

I know as writers we’re not supposed to ‘muse’. It’s seen by many as indulgent, unorganised and I suspect rather poor form. Instead we’re supposed to set a steady pace, formulate clear points, maintain structure, keep things interesting for the reader. All true, except that’s not how I write or why I read - because that’s not how I live. I have a constant stream of dialogue and potential stories running through my head at any one time. I take flights of fancy while I load my shopping basket, I am a perpetual day dreamer. I arrive at a beautiful location and hear a film score playing as the sun breaks through.

I awoke one morning recently, renewed. With a clear vision of where I wanted my latest creative endeavour to go. I imagined where I saw myself in a few years. The scene in my mind lit up like a runway. I had done this before with those same guiding lights, all I had to do now was focus on them. I could sense myself pulling in all the elements, aligning to the vision I had set. This was how the game was played. If you can see it, you can create it.

Dearest,

I have decided to move. Away from the noise, and all those bright lights we’ve all become so dependent on. I’m moving back to a place where I can breathe and slow down once again. You’ll be surprised to discover that it is a rather quaint little shop that never has to close its doors. I suppose, upon consideration, that it could be described more as a library or gallery of sorts, where people come to talk, share stories and ideas. Do you remember how many hours we used to spend in such places?