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.
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.