What if I wake up tomorrow to find I’ve hit a block so hard that there’s no coming back? What if, I can’t write anymore?
It’s a hypothetical question, but a wake up call as well. Because I don’t have a contingency plan. I don’t know what I’d do if I don’t write. I’m lucky my job involves writing and my hobby is writing. But if I can’t do the one thing I can do, what would I do then?
I would try singing. But I make people bleed from their ears.
Maybe I’d just go back to studying. I like studying, I like poring over books and reading between lines. I like reading great writers, and I’d revel in words, delve deep into the mystical world of literary puns and illiterate goons.
I’d wake up each morning, breathe in words — from Shakespeare and Milton to Doyle and Christie. I’d bury myself in fresh prints and vintage tints, reading in bed, every day — on Valentine’s too.
And while turning the pages, I’d whistle my favourite tunes — and no one can tell me it’s not a girl-thing to do . I’d sing when I feel like it, I’d read aloud, I’d narrate, I’d play the part of the main character and test my vocals; “Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
I’d read book after book, I’d turn page after page, I’d inhale in morsels, the ink on those books, and get drunk in the pleasure of alliteration and word manipulation.
And then I’d realise romance isn’t my forte, and I’d pick something closer to my heart; because I know, “something wicked this way comes.”
And once I step over my Rubicon, there’s no return. And I’d be for eternity under the influence of the greatest drugs known to mankind; “words, words, words.”