I’m always up in the early hours while the world sleeps, and I love it. Even if I’m hung-over; a pint of water, two paracetamols, a shake of the head and that’s me. Awake, alive, ready to dive into the day. I’m a writer in the true sense of the word, always doodling in notebooks, with stacks of pens close to hand, unconcerned whether my words are read or not; so long as I can express. I draw diagrams, little stick men, huge landscapes and play quiet music in the background. It’s my little taste of paradise. There are stacks of books above my lovely big desk, but I usually slump into an armchair in the corner and do most things on my knee.
When over-inspired, I wrap-up, go outside and wander along the pitch-black lane across the road from my house, preaching to the universe as it preaches to me. It’s the only way to get things straight in my mind, talk it all out, loud and free. Many years ago, I was in touch with a woman called Cathy in Australia, chit chat on-line, that kind of thing. Eventually she visited her parents in England, so we met in Lyme Regis for lunch. She surprised me with a Radiohead CD, which I loved, and a pair of bright red cycling gloves; which were great for riding the hills near my home in Somerset.
We sat outside to eat in the sun and talked about all sorts of things, but suddenly she stopped, annoyed at herself and said, “Damn, I didn’t give you what I meant to.” “What do you mean?” I asked, happy with what I had. “I meant to give you a blank sheet,” she said, looking flushed with embarrassment, “a blank sheet of paper.” She need not have feared embarrassment because in an instant, I understood. During one of those moments that cannot be described, Cathy had been inspired to give me a blank sheet. It was an instinct that emanated from the reservoir of ‘life’ that resided within her. A reservoir that’s in all of us, if we’d just listen to it. “Just by saying it, you’ve done it,” I answered, “I get it.” And I still have it. As we sipped tea in the sun, my heart bubbled with the underlying messages contained within that simple gesture.
That’s how it is with inspiration; what one hears in a single moment can then take hours to explain, and even then, remains inexhaustible. It takes a bit of courage to convey such a message out loud, because to the human mind it can sound foolish. I have to say, for me, there’s nothing quite like a blank sheet in the early hours, upon which I can create anything I want. And it’s the same with life, a blank sheet that has never existed before. The day belongs to me, and not I to it; you should think about that, there’s quite a difference. It may not appear possible, but life is there to be shaped, designed and created by you. Either you will conform to it, or it will conform to you. It’s a blank sheet, make your choice.