Peering over the writer’s shoulder like an annoying supervisor, the naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling gives the impression of light while effectively casting shadows that hide the dust of neglect littered throughout the room. Twelve-font letters drip like a leaky faucet, slowly but regularly into the glow of the computer screen. Steadfastly, like an undercover operative on an assignment of national security, the writer labours single-handedly to construct a coherent sentence properly dressed in punctuation and grammar.
Finally, the slothful ticking of the clock unlocks time and sends a reminder about the gathering. Collecting scraps of partly finished rhyme and narrative, the novelist escapes in relief from the characters of the current storyline who are screaming for liberation from their own turmoil. Dashing past piles of groaning laundry and other household chores, she rushes out.
The streets are crowded with stories that tug at the writer like a breeze on autumn leaves. On this day, though, the strategy calls for her to stealthily allow such intrigue to fall behind as she is drawn toward the heart of the gathering place. Others, also unrecognizable by the general public as people with clandestine lives ruled by the necessity to fill white space with black ink, meander into the room. Young moms, businessmen, teachers and construction workers leave behind their daily duties for a covert encounter with fellow writers in order to refocus on what they know to be their true mission.
As the debriefing begins, creativity flows through the room mixing with prayer and laughter. Refreshing encouragement splashes onto the group. Inspiration paints colourful action and dialogue as the writers share their latest compositions and concerns. They learn from each other, rejoicing in publication successes and suggesting new tactics for submission.
Too quickly, the meeting ends. With stories to write, markets to send to, and contests to enter, the writers are sent away with their assignments. Renewed determination energizes them as they leave, still incognito and moving furtively back to their masquerade among the real world. They are excited to fulfill their calling.
Returning home, the writer steps past laundry now content to sleep in huddled masses. The computer hums softly and insight blossoms as the sun shines through the window. She settles to work, once again in solitude but secure, satisfied, and not alone.
This piece won my first year of membership with Inscribe Christian Writers Fellowship, appearing in FellowScript magazine.
photos CCO license courtesy of Pixabay.com
Marnie has recently retired to Saskatchewan, Canada to write and be with her grands. She shares from her heart, drawing from both painful and joyful life experiences, where she believes God's presence makes all the difference.
No wonder this won a prize. it is incredible!
Now that would be quite an entrance, Marnie. I think my writing friends would be a bit surprised. Thanks for the idea.
Thanks for this, Marnie. I enjoy looking at various scenarios of life through your camera lens.
“Secret Mission”! I love this post, Marnie. Thanks.
I am, at this very moment, writing in the partially finished basement space that is my office. “(The) naked light bulb (is) dangling from the ceiling (and it) gives the impression of light while effectively casting shadows that hide the dust of neglect littered throughout the room. Twelve-font letters drip like a leaky faucet . . .”
I am chuckling to myself and enjoying your voyeuristic look into my writing life, but I am also in deep admiration of the spirit you express in your story and your expert choice of words that tell of your “clandestine” meeting with your fellow word sleuths. We Women Word Weavers of Barrhead take turns chairing our meetings, and I am preparing to chair our meeting this coming Monday. With your blessing, I plan to read this delightful blog to them.
Oh my, Sharon, I do hope you are able to finish your office with decorations that will inspire more than a naked light bulb. LOL Of course, you may share this blog. I am picturing you slipping into the meeting wearing a fedora low over your shifting eyes and wrapping a cape over your face so as not to be recognized.