I’ve typed ‘The End’, and handed the finally-finished novel over for film consideration. My brain’s empty and word-dry, emotions deplete.
So what now?
Go walking, of course…
I saunter down to the bay where the coastline arcs around the mass of water, magnificent and carefree.
Cliffs burn ochre-red in the noon sun, and tiny fish dart among shells and pebbles that quiver under rippling water.
I’m reminded that this landscape inspired Streeton and Boyd and Blackman, and so many others. Those artists knew how to let the land speak to them, then they mirrored back what they heard, gifting us with their visual impressions …
I stand next to the lone seagull and I too listen, hoping for inspiration, direction or just some good old-fashioned clarity.
But I hear nothing: no profound message, no words of wisdom, no call to action.
Then slowly it seeps into my consciousness … swoosh … swoosh … swoosh … and I realise that for now, the inhale and exhale of lapping water is miracle enough.