So, I present to you a snippet from Am I Dreaming?, which I wrote on the 22nd December 2011.
I stare at the rivulets of water running down the window pane while I chew the back end of my pen, which is as frayed as a feather duster. Inspiration just will not come to me. The Muse has gone awol again, and I doubt she’s coming back anytime soon. And yet there is a yearning within me, a longing that tugs at drives me to frustration, to write something … anything … I don’t care what about, so much as I care about having something to show for my claim to be a writer. After all, what good is it to be a writer with nothing to show of one’s craft.
So I gaze through the window to the dreary day outside, wishing that an idea for a story would dawn on me, although more than the shade of the sun behind the clouds at the moment. As I watch, the clouds drift towards the west, driven by the winds of destiny, to be replaced by darker, more menacing clouds. At the same time, everything I see becomes shadowed as the sun’s light is eclipsed by moisture. Snow clouds? It is winter after all, and although the weather didn’t predict snow here, places around about are due a smattering.
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