An online forum that I frequent occasionally has an ongoing piece, entitled, "Are you a writer?"
My answer privately is, "I used to be." As I once, many moons and hats ago, made a living out of writing as a News Reporter. Nothing grand, no-one famous, just one of the many minions of journalists beavering away at local and regional level newspapers.
My current field of work has nothing in common with journalism and writing and because of that a core part of me has become stale. So any skills I might have had, now lie buried and rusting inside of me and I daresay the key is seized inside the lock to the door of that room. Sadly...C'est la vie..! The work I do is valuable, I'm told by my seniors that I'm very good at it, so I would 'never' belittle the importance of my professional work and the rewards of it. But...there is a sadness that a 'gift' (if that's too arrogant a word, then it wasn't meant to be - really) has been squandered or never pushed to its' full potential.
On a positive note, I still have a passion for reading, which has never left me since I popped from a baby pod with a comic in my mouth.
I'm an avid little worm and drill a million holes through the pages of books as I eagerly burrow my way through them, tasting the lives, zest and imaginations of others, devouring them with a hungry mind and then like a Biblical plague of locust I fly onto the next crop. It's wonderful to be able to lose yourself in the minds, creations and world's of others, just by simply opening a page.
So..over the next week I'm off to 'the sticks' up in the frozen north to a cabin by a lake, with books, damp dogs & sweaty paws, a few cigars, Mister Pino Grigio, a couple of chosen rods & flies and watch the bunnies have lettuce-pillow fights as a summer sun bleeds its' colours across the water and greets the night.
