by Elizabeth Hawksworth
She picks up the pen and whispers, “This time will be it,” as she stares at the blank lined page. Different from her school-day Trapper Keeper binder, those Hilroy notebooks that were filled with bad poetry and dots of self-pitying tears, they’re plain, almost, with a tiny edging of blue just where the margin should be. It’s a hint of a margin, like there’s a hint of an idea—but she’s been playing with ideas since she was five, and this one is no different.
The castles aren’t in the clouds, they’re on the page, she thinks, but she can’t get past the shine of the green leaves in the sunshine, the red of the flowers dotting her garden. If she squints, the convenience store across the road turns into a nineteenth century manor home where a Jane Austen character might live. If she squints, the entire city is full of inspiration, breathing in the humidity of a September afternoon.
If she squints, the story is there, unfolded before her. Perfect characters, perfect setting, perfectly and utterly complete.
The patio umbrella clinks cheerfully in the warm gust of wind and she can see the edges of red creeping over those shining green leaves . . . everything changes, she thinks, and so have I.
And the story is there . . . it’s in the leaves, the umbrella, that blue-lined margin, that pristine page.
She picks up the pen and whispers, “This time will be it,” and she starts writing.
1 comment:
That was gorgeously done.
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