My father worked long hours, Monday to Friday, leaving the house at seven or eight, returning long after the child I was had fallen asleep. On a Saturday, my mother would take advantage of his presence for a weekly shop, a drive in the country or a family visit to her friends in Leeds. Only on a Sunday, did my father have time that he could call his own. Every Sunday, he would rise from his bed around six, pulling trousers and a jumper over his pyjamas, then he would leave my mother wrapped in her dreams. Downstairs he would turn on the stereo. Shaped like a sideboard, the stereo was large, teak and bore two in-built speakers, one on each side. Beneath a lid sat a radio and a turntable. He would click the switch to 78, choose a record from his collection, then while the music wound around the lounge, he would prepare breakfast for himself. While my mother and I slept, he would reintroduce himself to Ella Fitzgerald , Ma Rainey and Pearl Bailey . Louis Armstrong was always a favouri...
Sometimes, I have to remind myself of doing this; even if I'm not feeling my writer's mojo. If we aren't writing, then we are losing the magic in our storytelling and plot. I've learned no matter what, I should just sit at my desk and write.. whether that may be working on my novel, blog, children's books... or even emails. And if I'm truly not feeling creative that day, then at least stay focused and think of ways to make my stories more unique and different than others. Great choice words.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Gina.
DeleteAnd sometimes it's very, very hard. lol
ReplyDeleteIt is. :-)
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