Confessions From The Writers Chair

I have it! After years of pontificating. Numerous failed projects. Non starters. Writer's block mid way through the first chapter. Incoherent story arcs, or just babbling nonsense dressed up in profoundly shite jargon I think I may have it.

I have a premise. I have a distinct heading. The voice is audible. It is clear and concise in my mind. The journey seems easy to navigate. I have four distinct elementary processes. Four different stories. Four chartered courses, four ways to reach my intended destination.

I intend to mosey on down through the greenery to ensure completion of the first journey. I intend to soar majestically high above the ground free as a bird to complete my second journey. The third journey is an embittered one. Facing the searing heat will not be an easy task, though upon completion I will be able to reinvigorate my soul in the cool springs for the final leg of my journey.

As a matter of fact the process is one I am quite looking forward to.

I confess to be facing a challenging conundrum. I am unable to connect the pieces of the puzzle. I am lost at sea. The ferocious wind is pushing me ever more off course. The pelting rain has lashed upon my vessel, saturating my intended course. The story has had too much time to ferment in these conditions and I now find myself without a distinct heading.

My previously steadfast compass, perplexed by the environment has become magnetized and useless. The task has proved to be one of unenviable difficulty. Sufficiently navigating the correct route, whilst bypassing seemingly tempting alternative directions and avoiding all manner of peril associated with sea voyages has lead the narrative along a unchartered heading. Though, despite the present predicament I feel optimistic in arriving in our alloted destination.

The machinery is working though it is unfocused. Ideas, circumstances, characters, emotions, ideologies all whizz around my brain without forming a coherent story. There is a missing connection. Like a jigsaw puzzle the story does not flow chronologically, but is more of a fill in the blanks.

The basic premise is formulating in my mind. The major events are all but decided upon. The antagonist, protagonist and all the major players are assembled.

The yarn does not appear fully formed yet a challenging conundrum. One where I am excited by the tale I feel compelled to tell. A directionless story is one that is daunting, yet filled with possibilities. I am entering unchartered waters.

I confess to my ambitions. I am excited by the prospect of this voyage.

I am seated in the writers chair. My thoughts centre on the desk to my left. Last week this desk occupied, now however it is not. His name was Peter. He supported Liverpool FC and had a girlfriend called Kim. His desk is no longer occupied.

There is no mention of his absence by my Line Manager. In fact there is no mention of his absence by anyone. There is emailing back and forth. Rumors and speculation inevitably leads to a flurry of paranoia. I keep quiet.

The office has officially reached a state of paranoia. The flurry of emails arrive in my inbox in such a rate sufficiently responding to them all is impossible. My irritated co-workers retort angrily.

The clock is moving at an exorbitantly slow rate. The tension is becoming overwhelming. Rumors and speculation invade our thoughts and engulf our duties. A single bead of sweat on my forehead draws attention to the warmth of the office. Outwardly I remain tranquil, though inside my stomach is playing loop-de-loop.

I furtively scour the Internet fearing the inevitable. I gotta pay the piper myself should the worst happen. The echo of the phone reverberates in my eardrums. I have to get out, the walls are closing in. My breathing is becoming shallow and I'm feeling distinctly nauseous.

I rise from my chair and am confronted by Peter. "Alright mate, soz for bailing this morning. Had the dentist, drilling in your mouth ain't fun, what I miss ?"

I feel like I've aged about twenty years.

I confess that I wish to permanently be seated in the writer's chair.

I awaken and fill my lungs with a sharp gasp of air. My head feels about two sizes too big and that cold thing happens to my stomach. I turn onto my side. Big mistake. The swell inside my stomach becomes all encompassing and no sooner have I lethargically rotated than my stomach contorts and I race for the bathroom.

Crouching face down I try to collect my thoughts at the interlude. How had I ended in this state. My mind is racing, my breathing labored. I stumble out of the doorway and head back to bed.

I just want this unpleasantness to end I pull the covers over my head and absorb my mind into my thoughts. I lie there fully awake in a vegetated state.

Still my mind refuses to conclude it's incessant rambling.

I rise, put on my dressing gown and here I am. Still my brain refuses to relent. I had a cracking idea for a story, but it is now lost.

I confess that's the story of this Sunday morning!

I am seated in the writers chair. A familiar and comfortable place though the machinery is not working. That is my mind. It has decided to falter at the first hurdle.

I am seated rocking leisurely in my chair, my mind drifting, reflecting on nothing in particular only allowing myself the comfort of nothingness.

My compulsions have discontinued, like a factory press after hours the once vibrant machinery is dormant.

There is comfort, though I cannot allow myself this acceptance of idleness.

I absorb myself deeper, retreating into fantasy. It is at this point where stripped to the bare bones I begin to write. The words flow from my fingers like raindrops falling from the sky. There is no distinct thought process or planning, the words simply flow continually without hesitancy or interruption until the story is complete.

I raise my head and my eyeballs loll to the back of my head.

I call the story 'Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining'.

I raise from my seat and lurch forward to the bathroom. Rinsing my face in the cold water I stare blankly at the reflected face. This person doesn't seem like me at all.

I hereby confess to the following:

(i) I confess that I have neglected sufficient time to my writing ambitions.

(ii) I confess I am never satisfied with any of my work.

(iii) I confess that I am a dreamer.

(iv) I confess I am an vociferous reader of novels. Absorbing myself in fiction instead of reality.

(v) I confess that I see a potential story everywhere I look though I am unable to focus these ideas into constructive literature.

(v) I confess that I have a wavering confidence in my work.

(vi) I confess to wasting my time in jobs to pay the bills, instead of actively and conscientiously pursuing my dream of writing.

(vii) I confess that I have the inability to turn my mind off, which causes no end of problems.

These are my confessions. There are more. At present that is all I care to divulge.