Where Oh Where, Self Wonders, Are These Voices Coming From

There are at least six books lying open on the desk self has baptized as her exclusive writing area.  It’s a glass-topped table above which hang two square paintings.

Everywhere she travels, self designates one particular spot as the spot in which she does all her writing.

The system works pretty well:  it’s like being in an office.  The desk is her equivalent of a work cubicle.  She has conditioned herself not to do anything but write when she is seated at this desk.  It’s a trick she acquired after reading about Pavlov’s dog.

Today, she began writing a story that begins (the voice is not her typical writing voice, must be the influence of Annaghmakerrig):

As for the crew, I can profess with the utmost sincerity and conviction that no captain could have wished for a more trustworthy and stout-hearted companion than the late Lieutenant O’Neill.  He fought a long and hard battle with dysentery but eventually succumbed, six days into our crossing of the Indian Ocean.  He leaves behind a devoted young wife and a son not yet two, both of whom were at the dock to wish him Godspeed on the day of our departure from Southampton.  In my long years of voyaging, never had I experienced a day as black as the one when we consigned Lieutenant O’Neill’s body to the embrace of the sea.

See what self means about “different from her usual”?  She wonders if she can strong-arm one of the residents into reading it, in that inimitable Irish brogue.  Because when she reads aloud what she has written, in the solitude of her farmyard cottage, she isn’t sure she quite pulled off that hat trick:  it is very hard indeed for a Filipina to try channeling Three Years Before the Mast.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

 

 

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