Today I welcome fellow Crooked Cat author Jane Bwye to my blog for a guest post. Over to you, Jane:
…Or that’s the mystic’s view, and aren’t we all mystics at one point or another in our lives? I defy anyone to deny they have experienced the feeling.
But who hasn’t ignored it at the dead of a wintry night, when a soft pillow and a warm duvet cocoons them in easeful luxury – at their peril? It is a transient gift, capricious. But I have learned in the past year that it can be cultivated like any other.
A musician requires hours and hours of practice and aching fingers; painting needs an abundance of time, contemplation, experimentation and a mountain of material to discard; a singer has to practice long hours to strengthen the voice, open the throat, raise the diaphragm and produce the impeccably tuned note at a given time; the dancer suffers agonies from broken toes and bunions in order to pirouette with effortless ease and create an airy impression of faerie lightness.
At the beginning of this year, when I realised I was, amazingly, a REAL author, I resolved to act like one and practice my craft in public. My blog is regularly updated twice a week. Yes, I know that every Tuesday I host a different author – but we have to interact also – network with each other to advance our skills and keep in practice. On Fridays it has become less and less of a burden as the weeks progress, to dig out old diaries and pictures and tell of my travels round the world.
Comparatively speaking, only a tiny insignificant fraction of the world actually views my blog. But, amazingly, that matters less to me than obeying the urge to be productive, whether or not I am feeling like it at the time. One reader is always better than none.
That also goes for times when I respond to invitations to be a guest on other blogs. Like now. This piece has disturbed my peace for many weeks, grating on my conscience and causing despair and procrastination. Now, at the eleventh hour before dawn on a Sunday morning I suddenly pick up my pen and it writes for me. In a flash, 400 words appear of their own accord.
Take them as you will.