The problem, she said, with being a writer is, it’s never done.
The line never ceases movement even when the end arrives –
The ripples created on the mind span an ocean so vast, so incomplete,
There’s no shore to find, no place to rest.
The noise reverberates;
The worst kind of one man band.
Knees clashing cymbals, feet kicking bass, hands fumbling an accordion as
A pen hisses, a worn bow against an out-of-tune violin.
Sure, said she, the noise comes –
Sometimes in spurts and sometimes in spasms,
Rarely fluid or as beautiful as one would hope,
A clash of Faulknerian breath in a symphony-grotesque container,
Twisting together. Cacophony of noise that resolves only to discord.
And only after that great pain, can the story begin…
Naked, sitting upright in the center of the hood.

last line blatantly ripped off – with full permission – from the opening line of The Scummers by Lee Maynard. May he rest in peace. 

© Christine Wilcox 2013