The Cliff

So where am I now, you might ask? A proper beginning requires an adequate description of the setting, to orient the reader, or so literary theory says. So, reader, allow me to orient you: I am on the top of a very abrupt cliff , and I am looking timidly at the raging sea below. We might say that I find myself in the Scottish Highlands, just for the sake of consistency, as my historical fiction pieces are set there. It is a beautiful, sunny, but chilly afternoon, and the wind blows the fluffy clouds on the sky like a shepherd might guide his divine herd. It makes me think of the unforgettable ancient roman legend ( and when I say ancient, I mean it in terms of ‘into-european tribe ancient’, it was a story as old as the wheel when the Roman Empire stretched from one corner to the other of Europe), of the Wind being no more than the Great Hound, chasing the herds of the Sun-God Helios, the clouds – the sacred cows who nourished the Earth.
I am lying down on the wet green grass, with only my head poking above the edge of the ridge, and contemplating the distance which stretches between the precipice and the foaming mass of water below and I am wondering if I should jump, would I fly , or would I fall? Did I tell you that I am also afraid of heights? Then I try not to brood , and instead, to encourage myself. In the end, what’s the worse that could happen? I might get just a little wet.

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Don’t worry, I am not being suicidal , just metaphoric. I am not planning to kill myself, I only want to write another book.

I want to write a novella. And get it right this time around. Those dark waters below? Maybe you have wondered at the strangely intense colour, too. It’s ink! So, step aside, and don’t get too close to the edge. If I fall, I might splash some drops on you and you might get your clothes stained. I have acquired quite whale-ish dimensions since I became pregnant. No, no, I don’t want to yammer, I will spare you the skinny-girl-gone-chubby drama. I am quite enjoying it, to be frank. I am simply being very altruistic and thinking about your garments. You wouldn’t want them to be spoiled , would you?

  Now, before making the Plunge, there are some preparations to be met. I will need to grow some plumage, if I ever want to learn how to fly.

I am taking a course in creative writing, and that helped. A lot. I am sure to expand on that on an ulterior post. I did not believe in the power of workshops, but, boy , how wrong I was!
Then , you have to learn the right moves. Flying requires a bit of effort. And how else would I be able to do so, if not by observing other flying creatures? Which means, I will keep reading, and , in the process, I will tell you all about it. I have always been a voracious reader, so don’t look for any consistency in my choice of books. I read pretty much anything, from Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell to contemporary literature (fresh out of the print). The oldest book I have read? Hmm, it must be Petronius’ Satyricon. But we will have time to talk about that at leisure in the special column, “The Books on my Nightstand.”

Next time , I will take you through my journey to the top. I just looove flashbacks, don’t you?

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