“I'll close my eyes and I wonder If everything is as hollow as it seems”
I’m thinking about my books for once. All those unfinished stories. At seventeen I thought I’d be a properly published author by now. Is it a good thing I can’t tell her how things will go? Would it change anything? Would things be different if I could?
I didn’t write at all in January. Oh, a paragraph one afternoon, that didn’t lead anywhere. It was getting harder and harder, putting the words together, so I thought I’d just let them sit. Let them wait. And slowly, far more slowly than I liked, I feel them crawling back from the corners of my mind, wanting attention once again.
I miss the days where I’d write hundreds or thousands of words. They’ll come back, I always said. Usually I’m right about this.
This time though, the words keep knocking against my mind. What’s the point? What’s the point in writing if you’re not here to read it? To discuss it? To explore the possibilities? What’s the point in any of this without you?
And the answer, I suppose, is because there are still others who will want to read my stories, and to talk about them, even though they’re not you… And that I should write for myself as I always have, to put the stories I want to see out into the world. I have to want them badly enough to make them happen, and at times I don’t know if I do. I always thought I did. I want to want them that much. Because, without writing, without creating stories, what am I?
I miss you. It never changes. I miss your voice, your tone, your laugh. Some moments I can hardly breathe for it.
Send me a sign, Eames, that the stories are worth it in the end. Remind me of the magic I once believed in. I need it.
“There are some awful things in the world, it's true, but there are also some great books.” – Among Others – Jo Walton
‘They tell me everything is gonna be all right
But I don't know what all right even means’ – Trying To Get To Heaven – Bob Dylan