The Mists of Writing while Walking the Boundaries.

Mama the policeman will have something to say about that. 

Every photograph, though taken on the same day, has slightly different light and is viewed differently by each reader. This is why every writer has something viable to say. 

Some might say: Mama you are looking fat. Others might think she is looking a little bit pregnant, an oxymoron  – to be a ‘little bit’ pregnant

My mother, who was not fat, always wore red lipstick and heels every time she went out,  even if it was just to the shops. In fact, towards the end, one of her good friends said to me that she could tell Mary was really sick because she had stopped wearing  lipstick. Mum  wore perfume sprayed from a crystal decanter that she kept on her low oak dressing table. She once laughed about an actress who would spray a mist of bright perfume into the air ahead of her and then step into it allowing the scents to envelop  and drift down onto her person at will. My mother did not like to be too heavily scented you see. So she would spray just a little behind her ears, into her soft curls and the aroma of my mother, combined with the drifts of sea spray from just beyond the front gate, would linger there for hours. When she got home and said goodnight with a hug,  and her hugs were always quick and to the point – her lipstick still firmly in place, we could smell that mingle of scents in her throat.

nrHatch has thrown down a very gentle challenge. She is hosting a writing competition.  The prize is the book A Writers Desk. But more importantly she asks us to write a little about our desk and our writing methods to enter the competition.  This is what I was thinking about as I followed the footsteps of a light coyote with a heavy left back paw around the boundary of the farmy. Now, here is my entry for the competition.

Thing One approves of course. 

For me – writing is a little like that long forgotton actress’s footsteps as she moves into droplets of  perfume scented air.  I  hear her light step as I spray the mist of another world into the air before me and then I walk straight in, and I am gone there. The scents and stories settle around me and cling to my skin. The characters lurk about the desk, sitting on old books and sniffing at empty, long stemmed glasses. I sit at our desk for a while. Then I write. 

Chomping on consonants and sipping at vowels I was, as I walked the boundaries in the biting cold. 

Then the  light changed.

Good morning. Thank you for yesterdays comments, I have ordered my long silk drawers and  have even ordered a pair for John.  When I present them to him I am going to call them Tights, just to see the look of horror on his face! Why are they called Long Johns anyway. I guess Johns being underwear, but why are undies called Johns?

Have a lovely, lovely day.

celi