Strange feeling, almost a letdown. The Writers Festival is over, otto’s a wrap, and I have finally submitted some stories around. The high lasts longer than pot, maybe a few days even, but leaves the alcoholic’s need for more.
Normal life doesn’t hold it, though this spring calls and clutches at my heart for planting. Especially after my black mood of last year that focused on death, afraid to allow anything to grow because of where it needs to end. And my part in it. But this morning, the stirrings again of creative urge.
What’s been submitted, I have no fever for. The mailbox will be just a bringer of rejection, e-mails or phone calls will bring the reverse. There is no pressure, then, no stress at watching for the mailman. In another week it will be forgotten.
But the new words are coming, the stories, like crocus, burst inside the bulb of me and force their way up to bloom. I sigh, happy that they, like spring and all the seasons, will always come again.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology