Once Upon the Ink

Well here we are…

WAITING…

The Bookmaker is being all dressed up and prepared by the publishing company to meet the world and in the meantime I loiter and dilly dally and twiddle my toes (you might think I should say thumbs but I like toes better). Anyway, I am doing all those waiting type things. Who knew publishing could take so long? I thought I’d tell you stories about how stories start while we sit here – waiting.

Once upon a time, on a cold November morning, in the midst of some chaotic Christmas shopping, I stumbled upon an elf. (This often happens to writers, you know – stumbling on things and people by accident. Then those things lodge themselves in a writer’s brains and refuse to leave until they’re written.) This elf was named Mr. Whimsy. He told me he knew right away that I needed him for inspiration. Our very first argument was whether I bought him on a whim (ha ha) or he only let me think that.

Whatever the reason, Mr. Whimsy, tinkly bells and all, piled into my truck amidst a plethora of Christmas gifts and supplies. His hair was worn thin and stood up in sparse patches, and some of the sequins had fallen off his little vest. What had once been a bright green pair of leotards was now faded and had a distinctly brownish tinge. (My kids think he’s the ugliest thing they ever saw.) But his eyes sparkle and his mouth curls up in the most mischievous grin. In all his gaudiness he is irresistible.

He is also deaf. You’d think those pointy ears would be the last to go, what with their specialized, elongated shape. But it was undeniable from our very first conversation. He is, most assuredly, deaf. After a short period of yelling at each other, it was decided that ours would be a distinctly non-verbal friendship.

Mr. Whimsy’s been passed down from child to child (hence his patchy hair and faded spots). So he is an old hand at story telling, and it is with great pleasure that during the winter months I accept his offer to sit up on my bookshelf and watch me work. We get along quite nicely, with only the occasional setback. He is very good at interrupting me when I natter on about details – stopping my pen in its tracks with a polite “Ahem.”

“Brief is best, lass.” He always says (or rather, shouts). And after a very short episode of stubbornness and a sigh for all the lovely little words I must let go, I usually agree.

Such is the life of a writer in her hunt for inspiration – meeting things like Mr. Whimsy and then having to put up with them when they tell her that fun words like “henceforth” aren’t said anymore.