The Wonder of Words

It's late, I really should be winding down for the evening and allowing the sleep fairy to lead me drowsily by the hand to the land of dreams. I'm wide awake however, thinking of literature and the wonder that comes with the complete immersion in another world.

I miss it, literature and immersing myself in it. I find myself thinking longingly of the three years I spent submerged in the words of wonder induced by writers, of being guided to explore and analyse the language, characters and motifs by intelligent and skillful lecturers. I long to experience again the hours I spent discussing books: putting forward notions of the author's intent, psychoanalysing the characters and pulling a part the prose to offer textual evidence. I long to read and debate the merits of different theories from academic essayists.

I dream of days and nights spent talking, studying, researching and drafting my own theories on novels. I think, idealistically, of one day pursuing my PhD whilst knowing the roof of my intellect is a Masters.

“What an astonishing thing a book is. It's a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.”
― Carl Sagan

Sunshine, showers and Siren Voiced Muses

Its a sunshine and showers day today.

The sky is a moody purple-grey hinting at a whisper of a chance of some thunder and lightning.  Its all very exciting.  I am smiling with excitement.

Its what I refer to as a perfect day.

A perfect day in which nature is inspiring and my imagination should be having a field day of creativity... I should be writing my novel but instead I'm preparing myself for when I start.

I can taste change in the air.  Something big and important and exciting and is about to sweep me off my feet and whirl me away on the winds of a gripping journey.  I can hear my muse calling to me in a hushed siren voice, drawing me closer and making me ready for something amazing.  

I'm getting myself over this latest cold and I'm storing up my reserves to be consumed by writing because once I start there will be no interuptions and no stopping me until it is done.  

My fingers aren't quite twitching or itching but they are flexing themselves, readying themselves for letter imprinted callouses and faded keys.