Nothing to say

Now I understand where all the time went.

Today is the first day I have not been writing for over a month. I tell a lie, I didn’t write last Saturday either because I was at a book signing. Thank you to all you lovely people who bought books from me, I hope you all enjoy them. The day was such a success I have since had to refill my ink pen.

In fact, I tell another lie. I am writing today – this! I have no idea what it’s about, though. That’s the thing I suppose, that I feel I have to write something. Maybe it’s like a wish and the day you stop wishing for it, you stop believing it will ever happen.

But after 80,000 words in 24 days, I surely would have run out of things to say?

Yes, I suppose I have. But it’s always nice to say something, isn’t it? And the good thing about writing this is that I don’t have to think about it.

No plot. No story. Not even any jokes.

Sorry.

The one thing I do have though is music. New music - stuff I have downloaded but not had the chance to listen to, because I can’t listen music when I write. I know some writers can but to me music is art and art needs to be appreciated. On our wall we have a few pictures and they get looked at, studied even, every hour when I’m at work. Each time the eyes focus on something different in the picture which gives the words a break. Guess what? While I’m distracted, the next words get chance to organise themselves inside my head - all on their very own.

Music is the same. I can’t just hear it, I have to listen and that causes me a problem - because, unlike the pictures, lyrics stay and scratch their letters on my inner wall. And now we have a battle. Music verses the written word.

My written word.

I would so love those lyrics to inspire me rather than distract, but they can’t. Not even musical notes. Every one stays right in there, nudging its way to the fore of my here-and-now and dismissing my own creativity to the back benches.

Some statistics somewhere will show that singer-songwriters are failed poets. Likewise, poets, and possibly many writers, are failed musicians. Well, I’m saddened to announce: that’s me, in a sentence.

I would give my right testicle to be a musician. Both even.

To be able to put my slant on any song I have ever enjoyed, and sell it back to the world in my own name, would be the ultimate bliss. Furthermore, to write my own chords and words into something that flowed like droplets down a window pane - and then have the ability to play it on an instrument. Heaven wouldn’t even come close.

Yes, music is my first love, and always will be.

I’ve missed it over this last month. Welcome back.

In fact welcome, Christine Collister, I am really enjoying your new album and I have only just heard of you. And then you have another five albums for me to immerse myself in.

So much so, I’m going to be selfish and give it my full attention on my day off.