A heartbeat to be attached to
You weren’t supposed to like Mondays. You’d been told that your entire life. The Boomtown Rats didn’t and you were pretty sure the rest of human population didn’t, but you did anyway. There was no reason not to like it. It’s not like you had a job to go to. Not a nine-to-five, anyway.
Surprised how many people thought you were mad. “Retire at 44?” Of course you weren’t retiring, you’d just stopped working. There’s a difference. What you do isn’t working. You treat it like a job – it earns you money – notoriously little but you knew that when you started, quit your job. “I’ll temp if I need to,” you’d said and you do from time-to-time but this is your first love. Only love in the absence of a heartbeat to be attached to. A ‘soulmate’, ‘rock’ you want to say but avoid clichés, they’re frowned upon in this industry.
Some have asked what keeps you going and you have one word for it, ‘passion’. You can’t stop and why would you? Making things up thrills you. Even if no-one wanted to read what you wrote, you’d keep going because you can’t stop. You’d do it for yourself. You do really anyway.
At the back of your mind, you hope people will read it, enjoy it, tell you they enjoy it, tell others.
You think of what you should be doing, what many other writers do first: procrastinate. You’re almost out of clean mugs – you never use the same one two days running. You wear clothes that don’t need ironing to save time.
That’s what you battled with before you gave up your job. You’d wake each morning and work out how many hours you had before ‘such and such’, and you quickly learned that it was never quite enough. You’ve stopped counting but it still isn’t. So you slept less, went to bed later, got up earlier. The dark became your friend, although when you started writing you realised that it had already found its way into your subconscious. “Dark and light” you’d describe your prose but knew that the dark took over most often.
You smile at the title of one of your stories – ‘The Dark Side’ – written on one of the many courses you’d been on. You’re fond of it because it’s second-person point of view – something many have never heard of but you tried it and fell in love. Another literary heartbeat you are attached to.
You can remember the last time you fell in love for real, with a man. You miss him and wonder how he’s doing, where he is, whose heartbeat he’s attached to.
And that gives you an idea for another story.
Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.
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