Coming soon…

…  LAND OF MIDNIGHT DAYS

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Trains, planes and ideas.

As a writer I’m constantly on the lookout for ideas. Most of my week is taken up by my job and once I enter the hallowed portal of my employers, there’s precious little time for daydreaming or looking for inspiration.

So what do I do? As I drive to work, I travel along a road that overlooks the River Mersey. Despite its reputation for being polluted, from that distance in the early hours of the morning, the view is stunning. Across the water stands  Birkenhead, its plethora of buildings rearing up into the dawn sky. Above it is the sun tinged skies, filled with clouds displaying various hues of orange  running into pink, against a pale blue backdrop. Who wouldn’t be inspired by such a sight?

Below this lies the waters of the Mersey itself. Sometimes calm as a millpond it reflects the heavenly glory above it like a highly polished mirror. Then the scene shifts and changes. The sky is cloaked in greyness, edged with threatening black. The waves become choppy, swirling around the buoys placed to warn the unwary traveler against the treacherous sandbanks. Boats rock from side to side, but ships sail on unperturbed by the roughness all around them. Seagulls hang in the turbulent air, screaming out their rage and frustration.

Then the metamorphose begins again. Merry little wavelets, capped with white foam like lace bonnets, skip and hop. The seagulls settle on the surface, bobbing back and forth as if they’re figures let loose from some surrealistic merry-go-round.

My journey to work is almost done, but not until I pass the smooth green mound of a hill, dappled by the racing shadows of the clouds, interspersed with patches of sunlight. There’re no buildings on this hill, it lies naked of anything other than smooth green grass, mysterious and enticing, an island of nature amidst the clashing steel and cacophony of the nearby docks.

A kaleidoscope of images, colours and shapes, the River Mersey has its own kind of beauty – different, yes and not to everyone’s taste – but it fills my eyes with wonder and enchantment.

Dear diary…

Do you remember when you first began to write? I do.

As a child I’d always made things up in my head, especially when lying in bed at night. My mind, inspired by things I’d seen on TV or read, or even events at school, would churn around and form stories out of thin air.

I still live in the same terraced house, which is divided from my neighbour’s by a covered passage, or entry, running front to back, allowing access to the rear of the premises. I’d spend hours sitting in there, with my doll’s pram and my dolls, telling them stories I’d made up.

When I reached age fourteen, someone gave me an old, green leather bound diary with blank pages. From that moment on I began to write my thoughts and ideas down. Anything and everything went into that shabby tome and I remember filling it from cover to cover.

Alas, the diary is long gone, but not so the ideas. I still buy a largish diary every year and guess what? It doesn’t just contain appointments for the dentist and the doctor, but is also a treasure house filled with the rough diamonds of my thoughts.

Just for you, Lucas.