Sunday, 23 December 2012

Oh, what fun it is to write…

… but for heaven’s sake not in a one horse open sleigh! That would be too cold and too shaky for me and my computer. Besides I can’t stand snow-covered roads and landscapes. There isn't often much snow in Graz, but in the weeks before Christmas I don't like going downtown any better than a sleigh ride. I definitely prefer my home where it’s warm and quiet and comfortable. Nobody around me rushing to and from in a Christmas or rather shopping mania. No children shrieking because they see Santa Clause or the Christkind distributing flyers and coupons on the other side of the street. No shrill profuse Christmas decorations in shop windows that drive me away from the place. No smell of hot spiced wine enveloping me and bringing me close to the point of vomiting

Instead of freezing and existing in a state of constant alarm, I’m sitting in my chair close by the heating. At arm’s length from me the old cat is sleeping curled up into a ball. My green tea on the table is steaming in its cup while my fingers are flying over the keyboard of my computer. With every letter that I type I dive deeper into the world of the written word, the realm of thoughts and dreams. Mine as well as those of others. Real and made up lives are mixing in my mind. Real and invented places are mingling in my imagination. New events and relations are taking shape on my computer screen. Word for word. Sentence for sentence. Nothing around me still matters. Time is of no importance. I’m not a writer in front of a computer anymore. I am every single word that I'm typing, I am the story that I'm telling. Nothing can stop me. Then my story is told from beginning to end. The very last impression from an old film appears before my inner eyes, two words that say everything: The End. I close the file and run down my computer.

The cat is still lying curled up into a ball, but its head looks to the other side now. My tea no longer steams. It’s cold and bitter. My stomach rumbles and I realize that I’m famished. I have a look at my watch: hours have passed. My fingers are weary, my mind is blank. All those words that flowed from my head into my finger-tips! I feel exhausted, empty... past the finishing line of a creative marathon. A faint smile creeps onto my lips from deep down in my soul. I can feel it glowing, growing. It’s impossible that it doesn’t show. Oh, what fun it is to write!

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