Time…

Where does time go? Who steals it? And why do they take my best intentions along with it?

Damn cheek if you ask me.

Who decided to only have 24 hours in the day? Hmmm? Didn’t they realise we need at least twice as many as that?

In my story I Am Death, part of my Dark Places collection, the Grim Reaper talks about ‘an interminable period of time between the end of one day and the beginning of another – at true Mid Night – when forever fits neatly into a heartbeat. The Null.’ We could all do with one of those, couldn’t we?

Why am I so bothered, though? Why do I pine for the stolen minutes and hours?

Because I’m a writer. Because, if I don’t write, the words threaten to dribble out of my nose. That’d be messy. I have sinus problems as it is, without the added complication of Vocabularious Vomitus, or whatever it might be called.

But… I also have a day job. I also have a family. I also need to market. The latter also (useful word, that) a way to interact with other writers and fans. I can actually say I have real fans, based on some of the comments I’ve received for my work. What ends up happening, however, is that writing takes a backseat to everything else.

No wonder Sin took me ten years to complete!

Maybe, one day, we’ll all be like Igglepop, my strange friend who runs the Under the Bed Sweet Shop (where you go when your mum says “Sweet dreams”):

He’d a time machine in his belly, which he used twice a day, and the complete Enid Blyton on his wellie, carved in clay (the left boot, of course, certainly not the right! He was strange but not crazy! That would be such a sight!).

Well, maybe I’ll pass on Enid Blyton. Classic as they are, I’ll settle for The Belgariad or the Odd Thomas books, thanks. Still, the time machine would be useful. Or a voluntary Groundhog Day.

I think all such things are whimsy and want, though. I’ll have to continue to let loose my Muse when I can, and strap him down for the rest of the time. He’s a wriggly so-and-so, I have to say. I just hope he doesn’t escape whilst I’m writing a report or writing out my shopping list.

OK, I don’t write out a shopping list. I tend to wander around, picking the things I think I need off the shelves, knowing I’ll be half way home before I remember the three things I’ve forgotten but am desperately short of. But that’s half the fun.

So, time. It runs through my fingers and scampers off, laughing at me as it disappears over the horizon. There’ll never be enough. Apparently Time is relative.

A far distant cousin, from what I’ve seen.

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