A bitter wind blows over London as the zombie army of Christmas marches relentlessly forwards, laying waste to everything in its path. My poor, timid creativity has gazed upon its serried ranks, turned pale and fled.
A couple of days ago there were three new books clamouring at the gates of my imagination, demanding to be let out. Now I can hardly hear their cries against the rising tide of seasonal music spewing forth from hidden loudspeakers in department stores, car radios and tv sets.
My mother used to tell me about Christmas when she was a girl, walking back from midnight mass through the narrow lanes and across the patchwork fields of West Cork. At every house she passed a candle would be burning in the window.
That’s what my writing self feels like. A tiny candle burning in a great, dark, empty countryside.
3 comments:
Your mother's memories endure through the decades while most of the zombie Xmas gifts will be forgotten and discarded by April. I think your writing will endure as well.
Thanks, Paul.
That's beautifully put. In theory as writers we have some control over who see the flame but often I think it's just a case of making sure it doesn't go out.
Post a Comment