Its been a long time since I've written a word, purely for writings sake...so Im sharing my words, they are unedited and written in a 30 min block of time by candle light and with a cup of tea...'beyond the dusty bookshelves and the forgotten stories lay a nook so small if you blinked you would miss it.a little girl with a ripped skirt and a pocket full of dreams didnt miss it, not even for a second. She would visit this litle secret nook, each and everyday, she walked into the bookshop with not a single cent in her little bag, no intention to buy, just to visit this magical little crevice. She beleived that another world was beyond this hole, a land so exciting, so inviting that only the special ones would ever get a pass into the nook.'
It seemed harder to write a childrens storybook than it was to write a bloody best seller! Tilley had been dreaming of writing something, anything worth publishing for more years that she dare to count, the urge to see her name on the dust jacket of something great was a burnt brightly in her soul, she had been a starving writer for most of her adult life.
Her mother would phone her every other day and ask her if she'd gotten herself a 'real job' one that paid the bills and kept the lights on. And every other day she would grit her teeth a little harder and say 'no mother, Im a writer, this is my real job' the phonecall would end ubruptly with her mother muttering to herself about how could writing be a real job when there was never any real money made from her silly words. Tilley was a daydreamer and it was something she would never grow out of. When she was 5 she kept a notebook full of drawings, of all the lands she used to visit in her princess sheet tent, and as she grew and she learnt to write instead of draw, she filled journals and notebooks with her thoughts, dreams and silly musings, in the hopes that one day she could be a writer.
At the age of 35 and not a single published word to her name, the little writer within, was withering away, the writer was on dare she think it, mere life support. 'stupid nook' she muttered, as if this little nook would be offended by anything she had to say or think! Tilley was a nobody in a somebodies world. You would think with several degrees in writing, and an entire bookcase devoted to how tos write books and books on writing, and all the classics writen by every tom dick and harry that tilley would be able to write something, anything! 'Tea' she thought outloud, everything is fixed by a cup of tea. The entire tea fixing everything ritual was done at the bare minimum of 4 times a day, and so far all she had to show for it, was a bunch of fancy teas costing her a small fortune, and not a single best seller from any cup she poured herself. The world needed a writer like Tilley, she just didnt know how to show the world such things. She sat in her writing corner, with her notebook and favourite pen, steaming tea and wondered, what she could be if she wasnt a writer. It was only then that her mind went blank, as if the very thought made her mind short circut. There was nothing in this life for Tilley except being a writer, it was all she thought of day and night, she has her best sellers sitting on the top shelf of her writers bookcase, all her journals lined up by year neatly holding her entire being within them. There must be something worth publishing in these silly books she thought. If there was something, she had missed it, because every month she thumbed through the pages of her lifes work trying to find the key to her most deserving writer success. Each and every month, each journal has a moment in the present, and then gets put back into its own past for another 30days. It seems in all of her 35 years, all her strange little rituals, only leave her stone cold. She deep sighed, her words were fastly becoming her enemies, the one thing she thought would stand by her through it all were turning into singular daggers. She wanted to crawl into her little make believe nook and sleep till her novel childrens book or column in a bigtime paper was written, and she would awake to fame and fortune, and not cups of tea everywhere and a mother who had no faith in her whatsoever.
On the other side of the world, was a young man with messy hair and a leather satchel, whos words were bigger than he was.
Tea and Yarn