In this moment, she felt like an imposter… ‘Who do I think I am, calling myself a writer?’ Where’s the deal, the positive acclaim, cosy interviews on TV sofas, headphones on, waiting in radio studios for the ‘on air’ button to glow red? This is my life! she whispered to herself through frustrated tears.
She had visualised it clearly, rehearsed her life story line-by-line: the longing, the personal and financial struggles and finally – the success! It’s so funny, she grinned – flirting with everyone in the studio – achieving your big writing break when you’re in your fifth decade…flutter, twinkle, wink. Everyone in the studio laughed along with her, but silently they were thinking, ‘It won’t take me that long to get to the top of my game!’
Her gloomy thoughts were a reflection of a sky-full of rain, after a string of endless sunny days. This mood will pass, she said inwardly, closing her eyes in micro-meditation. I will poke my head through this web of despair, but today is a wallow sort of day. Eyeing her white bookshelves groaning with self-help books, she realised there was wisdom in occasional surrender to the drunken master of insecurity. She smiled at this thought, reminding herself that these funks were transitory and usually followed by periods of frenzied activity, globs of creativity and furious link-making with fellow writers, poets and disruptors.
The room was quiet, as her eyes moved from the bookshelves to the window, where a smudge of yellow in the grey clouds threw her hoops of optimism. The soft yellow grew lighter, shining directly onto the rage and beauty at her core.
© Suzy Rowland