Romaine Hill


My writing this year was like sipping, thoughtfully, suspiciously even, a drink I was not sure of. “Why,” I asked myself, “would I want to write a story, however much I like writing, about two Frenchmen, with snarly, smirking lips and a tableful of red, bloody-looking distasteful sausages?” Sure, it could be World War  II, and they could be part of the Resistance. Their saucisson could be stuffed with an assassinated Nazi general or with a darstardly Nazi collaborator, and about to be diabolically cooked & served to the SS High Command in the fortress towering above the village. But did I want to write such a story? Not really.

So I sipped unwillingly, thoughtfully, without enticement. Then I began to see – huh, this is not bad, bouquet is better than I thought, not total plonk. I sipped and inhaled. High alcohol content, I thought. Must be a stronger blend than I anticipated and I waited, now, for the intoxication to set in, to carry me forward, into another writing space. As words began to flow, I wrote on in a slightly alcoholic haze, happy, contentedly floatingly, fluid, with a far greater sense of well-being. Sipping no more.


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