Who said “that which hurts instructs”? If you’ve been around in the writing game for a while, it’s possible you’ll have experienced some of the agonies referred to. I hope some of the happiness as well.

Post bruising encounter

Gritted TeethThere I was. Rejected. Going over the hill (no comments please) towards the Firth of Forth. I’d had an informative cuppa, ground my teeth in frustration and, bruises salved, remained determined to carry on. If you missed the first part, start here. The second part is here.

Poetitch 

In the course of the journey, a few lines insinuated themselves into my mind. Have you ever burst into verse (or worse). I now call it a poetitch moment not poetic, poetitch. Poetitch  means overcome by an urge to scribble a few heart-felt on paper or in a posh device if you have one.

I’d been tweaking a sonnet (egotism or what?) for a painting Pauline McGee passed to me. And without warning four lines emerged:

At last our hero sets the pace
And presses on to Ainster’s shore
Above the sea wall, wind-swept street
A book shop where he’ll next explore …

A Different Bookseller’s Eye

A friendly, older man gazed up from a screen behind the counter. Fantastic auburn mutton-chops framed an interested face. Our conversation went something like this.

Car’s in for some work, though I’d drop in … [here we go, here we go, here we go!]

Nice to see you. 

Actually, I’m a local writer, do you support local writers?

Of course. [could’ve knocked me down with a haggis—preferably not frozen]

Jings! Crivens! Help Ma’ Boab! We had a brief, friendly and business like chat. He took a small stock of books, we agreed pricing and terms. Today, they’re in the shop window.

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The bookseller’s pleasure with the books and cover quality makes me smile yet. I recalled a blog by Anna Spoke and her reflections on getting in a bookstore window (she’s an excellent connection for writers, by the way).

Big sigh? … no, not yet … not done …

There you go, books in a store. Now what about the local press and radio? No, friend, it’s not masochism – it’s get out there time.

I can feel another post coming on. Lashin’? What’s that got to do with anything? Who says I’m a sadist … now that you mention it?

© Mac Logan