Bubbles From the Bottom of the Seabed

At times last year I felt myself in the clouds.

As a writer I was soaring. I was above the world I inhabited looking down upon everything and everybody.
The air was thin and clean, rushing hard in my face and yet pliable, responsive to every thought, movement and action I perceived.
My novel Born Under Punches was becoming.
It was emerging from the malaise of unformed ideas into a burgeoning behemoth – the development of the novel paralleling the realisations of the story’s main character Roy Carle.
Myself as a writer becoming increasingly adept in the learning of my craft.

77795_solnce_voda_podvodnyj-mir_puzyrki_1920x1200_(www.GdeFon.ru)And then…
And then awareness.
Awareness that I wasn’t flying up on high, soaring above the world, looking down.
That I was in fact underneath it and what I had perceived was inverted, refracted at an odd angle.
I found myself lying on the seabed looking up, with it all above me.

Next to me, in a shattered heap, the wreckage of my novel, a rotting and crumbling hulk, its ability to be salvaged unknown.

Ahead of me, the challenge was clear: do I rise or do I tie myself to this deteriorating carcass in the grave?

And so I began the slow, slow ascent back to the surface, the middle; the place where ability, desire, expectation and hope all mesh together.

Each metre I climb from off the seabed is done so by application to a basic concept…

…That I want to write and that I will write.

Even if it’s only for my own benefit and enjoyment.

And that means a new slate, a new idea, a new opportunity to create a world and characters that will live their lives upon the stage I offer up for them.

Some days I even forget to look up to see the great distance between me and the surface; I get so lost in creation, the intricacies and complexities of fictional lives.

Some days I remember what it is to fly, and realise swimming is much the same.

Ken Ward

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