Onwards through the gloop of words that’s moulded from my thoughts, making a mess on the page that was once pristine. The sharp capitals and the curly vowels remind me of homework times from not that long ago but with less concentration and for some reason they liked apple rice cakes as a reward.

The pages stick to all that touch them, the blank lines awaiting letters from brain to finger tip as I sweep the crumbs off the dining table that is my makeshift ‘writer’s cave’. Just the one more hob-nob I kid myself as I put the kettle on to fill the still-warm teapot. 
And in-between each page I fill, I stress at what might be or what may yet become.

I ask myself the question…

Why write? 

Why devour the ‘how to…’ books in search of answers when deep down I know I’m a procrastinator who needs to just Get. On. With. It.
Perhaps I’m not worthy of the heavenly planning spreadsheet I made, full of neat lines and encouraging descriptive text guiding me on, keeping me focused as I try to ignore the next episode of ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ and get some words down instead. 
It reads – chapter 2 shows promise but chapter 8 needs erased and why is there a un-inciting (made up word) gap where the inciting incident should be?  I think I might need to re-think the whole thing.

But what if there’s something, a little spark, a glimpse of a promise that someone thinks about my words in exactly the same way I do. That they might want to read more and not say ‘it’s not for me’. The black dog makes a fleeting appearance just at this point and whispers softly in my ear ‘have you thought about a different career?’ 

‘What if…?’ I whisper back.

What if the dog is wrong and all there’s a story so bold that only I can write it? What if I’m the only one with all the plot secrets? The only one to navigate the character threads and pull them all together at the end? 

That’s the ‘what if’ I’m looking for. How about you?