The Writing Room

Photo by Mike Tinnion on Unsplash

We gather in the writing room: pleased greetings, old and new faces, familiar voices with new stories. Before turning to the page, we take stock and do a gentle reckoning of the two years that have passed:

Quinces have been harvested (twice); 150 steps have been counted down to the beach; someone found a new knee and new hearing aids; a legacy is being whittled down to its essence, someone is intent on setting sail. Several are in transition, waiting for the whirlpool to settle; some have words on pages in books that are making their way into the world, and others are quietly working their way down a list of No’s until they hear a Yes. One is sharing her philosophical practice with new faces from around the globe, another missed out on a celebration with acrobats, singers and musicians and did eleven book launches instead; and yet another, in the midst of elderly fathers and dapper young sons, is wading her way through a wad of scenes to bring her story to the world.

We gather in the writing room, our notebooks held aloft in the palms of our hands, and we invite Her to come into the room.

We wait, pens poised like the stems of question marks. Outside, a turtle dove throats her quest for a mate. The mountain guards the horizon with her sloped shoulders. On the lawn by the window, three guinea fowl run past, like plump punctuation marks.

Our heads bow, our pens dip onto the paper and move in a grateful rush of loops and swirls, staccato stops and flourishes. She is here now, and for a time, we dance together on the page.

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