This afternoon I was having coffee with a good friend of mine whom I
have not seen in a while. We do not meet for coffee very often because the
journey from York to Doncaster simply for a cup of the finest Brazilian bean
isn’t really cost effective. Besides, we both have families and jobs, so neither
one of us can help it. But, still, we remain friends.
On these occasions we treat one another as adults, and enjoy a relatively
decent adult conversation over our first cup. My friend fills me in with all
the activities in his life I have missed so far, and I, less colourfully, while
wondering why my life is not as full and vibrant as his, do likewise.
It’s then that we inevitably stumble upon talking about my fiction
writing. He’s read just about everything I’ve written thus far because, being a
bookworm himself, I find him to be rather a critical soul when it comes to
words. I don’t mind, of course, and I would rather have that than have him
pander to me.
Now here is the important bit. Whenever I give him something to read he
always asks me the same old question: what the hell’s wrong with your head? How’d
you come up with this?
It’s not the first time I have ever been asked the question, and I
assume it certainly won’t be the last, but I can’t help but shrug the question off
whenever it’s asked, because I simply don’t know.
Maybe my brain is in a different place to everyone else’s. Maybe I see the
shadows around us a little differently. I don’t know.
Whatever the truth of it, I’m all right with it. I like my nightmares,
and I like what I find every time I think about opening the door to the closet
in my bedroom.
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