A Room of One's Own

by Carol Rogers

caroge@live.co.uk

 

 

On a desk, beside a blinded window,

sits a coercion of naked pages. Backs

of various scraps. Basic biros awaiting

the ink-flow of inspiration. A tub of

paper clips, bright as a mixed fruit-

salad. Several scatterbrained files,

crammed with untold, unsold stories.

 

A tenacious bulldog clip, nipped

around another pile of wayward papers;

taming them before your grand ideas are

blown away; before you've had time to

shred them into ticker tape strips of

shame; before you've selected a suitable

title - memorable, if possible.

 

All you need now is no risk of a rap at

the door. If a salesman calls, pretend

no one is home. Unplug the phone. The

only sounds are the shuffling of scribbled

sheets; the tapping of reticent keys; the

breathing of images into the unknown -

reaching out for lives of their own. 

 

 ©2010 Carol Rogers

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