In the Arms of Ephiphany

Oh, when it takes you, it takes you!

I’m talking about a sudden realization. That fey thing that kicks you in the balls. And you wonder, how the hell did that happen from such an inconsequential nothingness?

Where am I going with this? To the plexus, to the nexus, to the yellow-brick road?

Right, here’s the smack, cornbread, Double Decker on ice.

As a writer, I get that emu feeling from time to time: the proverbial head in the sand. All the usual demons, the most horned one always being: lack of things published.

But then PC 99 pops into my head:

“What’s all this then?”

“Was I speeding officer?”

“No, but you were whingeing. And this the autobahn of self expression.”

Oh, yes, right, the writer thing. Don’t take it so damn seriously until you have to: in front of the keyboard. And even then, allow for unknown pleasures, exquisite corpses.

It’s like this. I write even when there’s no reason to. No money, no readership, no agent, no publisher, no marketer, no fife and drum.

Here endeth the lesson.

The lesson: I’ve got mine, don’t worry about his.


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