Locked out: N M Browne
Sometimes being a writer is like being on the wrong side of a door, a glass door, that offers tantalising glimpses of the world on the other side. When I was young, I just broke through it using whatever was at hand; determination, energy and ignorance mainly which, correctly wielded, are powerful tools. These days I peer through the misted glass, admiring the scenery. I go away and rifle through my office drawers. I find several dried up felt tip pens, a broken biro, a usb that no longer works and an aged roll of cellotape which appears to have no end. A sensible woman would throw them out, but this one observes that none of these dispiriting objects resembles a key and closes the drawer. The door waits. On the other side, a dramatic storm is brewing. The sky is charcoal black and, as I watch, white lightning forks. Its afterburn dazzles me and I blink it away. I hope whoever lives there is safe: I have not met them yet, but I would care about the...