4 Jan


The time has come, the writ is wrote; chimed memory, which fell so deftly on the recently attentive, now echoes in deaf ears. A new year, a great leap forward, a procession of majesty, and a literary uncertainty. Will this be the year? Will the loose leaves of accumulated cobbled wisdom and unchampioned prose attain their rightful place on the podium of publication? Will the fire wrought chapters Black Panther-punch their way in to the lime light, or will they forever gleam dully from behind the mists of what-might- have-beens and Anglo elitist mediocrity? A forgotten script dipped in the dust of malcontent and micro rewrites; the hope and expectation of nonspecific comments coupled with cyber-spaced applause – sleeve worn expectation on a blog to nowhere?

I have it, I know it – I’ve been told time and again. My words bound from the page, my metaphors meteoric, my spelling less than desirable however the genus of originality all pervasive. Short stories created with an even shorter attention span; tweaked and pared to perfection, cobbled and honed, whittled and scrimshawed.

But for a sign – a skywritten indication – a helio-flashed glimmer of recognition from the ivory towers on the rim of possibility. To cross swords just once with the illuminati of literary immortality. Just one line-tugging bite as I prepare to my cast my hook into the pool of uncertainty – hopeful that my sparkling tin fish is noticed and gobbled down as it trims and dazzles – darts and dives.

Endless cups of tea coupled with quotidian-blinkered perusals of the web-connected. Another day of energetic scribblings, margined by the angst of colonial miscomprehension. Worried, terrified, and scared, of not achieving the achievable. It’s out there, I can smell it – hear it screaming my name. The beast that abounds in the forest of library shelves demanding my tribute – begging for my submission. I can feel its vibration through the tracks, see it ripple across a pond; sense it in the boughs of breeze blown trees. The time is right, the manuscript is now.

 Expectations of a firework adoring public- the oohs and aahs of generic acclaim as I climb, explode and scintillate. The moment forever scorched into the retinas of men – a brief illumination – a sweet remembrance of a life lived and not forgotten. Immortality attained through the medium of wood pulp and India ink.

 The year when dragons are chased back into the forest- banners flapping from castellated grandeur- battlecries echoing from ancient stones.

Come on you bastards – come and bloody get me!

Lord Alf is coming…….


2 Responses to “THIS BE THE YEAR…”

  1. Absolutely*Kate January 4, 2011 at 7:31 pm #

    Angst? Scriber & Scrawler angst?

    No way, no how . . . Energies here scream and dance
    new tangos waiting to choreograph small universes.

    *CHEERS* to your tip-top-toppling talents oh Colin James.
    Excuse me while I go out and find me a carpenter for more bookshelves.

    I’ll be seeking inscriptions from your prolifics.
    Grand new publishing year energies all over you.

    ~ Absolutely*Kate

  2. Dana January 6, 2011 at 8:00 am #

    Hoping this is the year everything happens for you!

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