You’re a writer. You know how it is. You eat, sleep, and dream with other people’s minds. What would it be like to an inch tall, you muse, or in command of a shoe? For a writer, the world is full of little what-ifs and I-wonders.
But what happens when all your questions are answered for you? When your quest to sort the world out is brought to an end.
My best friend, whom I subsequently married, and I used to puzzle over who was happier: man in his quest for answers, or the cow in the field who has no questions?
She thought that perhaps the questionless state might be a form of heaven. I argued that it seemed more likely a form of hell.
Heaven or hell, it recently presented itself to me in the form of the ultimate job. For a moment I hung up my writer’s spurs and thought I might settle in for the long haul, might hitch my horse to this wagon instead of my own.
It is hell. Might just as well shovel dirt onto my face, because there’s nothing deader than a creative that doesn’t create. Take these pencils from my hands – I don’t need them anymore.
As you’ll recall, Tigger searched the Hundred Acre Wood trying to find “what Tiggers lke best.”
What I found is that a writer is a writer is a writer, and perhaps that’s what this Tigger does best. Tiddily pom.