Writer's Gramps

Dead or dying I’d have described my muse over the last year or so but my Writing Group triggered a remarkable recovery with a challenge to write a short story on the subject of photography. I struggled for a while but, as a last resort, used this mind mapping thing and found several story lines. There was a kind of James Stewart Rear Window, where the cameraman saw something that have a clue to some criminal activity; petty or otherwise according to choice. Then there was the bride who fancied the best man and as the cameraman, or woman, checked the focus, they saw them smile to each other – had the groom been set up for a scam? In this focus moment, there are other interrelationships that could be seen, jealousy between the bridesmaids maybe, even the in-laws. In the end I settled for a group all smiling until the lawn sprinkler at the reception venue came on and created a rainbow effect – beautiful picture but it makes the mascara run. I don’t know if it was having to dig for a s...

 Like many others, my writing muse went to sleep during the long isolation of covid and I was even considering giving up on writing and sketching when, in frustration I turned to an old Bernard Cornwell and found - "Darkness. Winter. A night of frosts and no moon. We floated on the River Themes, and beyond the boat's high bow I could see the stars reflected on the shimmering water. The river was in spate as melted snow fed in from countless hills ... We spoke in whispers. The night was full off noises. The water rippled, the bare branches clattered in the wind, a night creature splashed into the river, a vixen howled like a dying soul, and somewhere an owl hooted. The boat creaked. Sihtric's stone hissed and scraped on the steel, A shield thumped against a rower's bench. I dared not speak louder, despite the night's noises, because the enemy ship was upstream of us ... " I read and felt the old desire to create surge again. It's not the de...