Sorry

I’m grumpy. I have no reason to be, but I still am.

Well, when I say I have no reason, I mean I have no good reason. I’m just grumpy because I have a head full of book that is proving to be bothersome.

Writers are buggers to live with when they’re cooking up a story. We are self-centred and often distant with those with whom we share our space. We’ll half-listen to conversations and get irritated when the minutiae of life gets in the way of the thing we really want to do: make stuff up.

I’m hell to live with like this, and I don’t know how those around me put up with it. So by way of apology, I’ve penned a little poem for them.

 

An Apology Poem

The words you speak are superimposed on those of another: a lover, a mother, a champion, a villain, a brother.

And even though I try not to be consumed, not to wallow in gloom, not to pace the room. I can’t always pull it off.

This tale inside my head, by which I am led like a lamb to the slaughter, invades my conscious and subconscious life, a nagging fishwife.

You smile and nod. “It’ll be fine. Have some wine.” You build me back up and tell me what I need to hear.

And when I read the words back to myself, I know they are as much a part of you as they are me.

My stories are your stories. We just tell them in different ways.