It was Monday morning, the week having passed in a blur. Lock down was grinding on and there was nothing happening, just the same old same old. The hours crawled on their hands and knees as the clock face grew pale and sullen; seconds ringing out their doleful tick-tock tune.
I thought I’d climb up to Wolstonbury Hill but the weather had other ideas, with the mist descending like a heavy blanket, smothering my resolve, telling me to wait till the sun came back on duty. It never did, so I withdrew to my room and waited till evening, a kinder time of day.
The problem was I still hadn’t written a word about “The Deadline.” I decided to look it up on Wiki, which informed me that the term originated from the grim days of the American Civil War. A ‘dead-line’ being a ditch surrounding a Confederate prison compound; prisoners who crossed the dead-line would be sure to attract the deadly bullet of the sentinel.
Perhaps that’s why I find the term so unnerving. If I don’t meet the deadline I’ll be shot down and humiliated. The term went out of use but resurfaced in 1917 when it was used to describe a guideline on the bed of a printing press, beyond which text will not print. A bit like the way I feel, I want to write but the words don’t show up on screen. Apparently only later was the term used in the sense of a ‘time limit.’
In my ‘nothing happening kind of day’ I fell into a dreamlike state, hoping my unconscious would come to the rescue. I prayed for inspiration but it was no good, I was just not in the mood for writing. I should have cancelled attending the writing group but it was now nearly seven thirty and having left it so late, decided to make my way to the virtual lounge. The Zoom waiting room, if you please.
It wasn’t always like this. We used to meet at All Saints in Lewes, a Church turned art’s centre. The entrance had a haunting presence, there was a distant familiarity about it reminding me of a past life.
Trapeze artists used the high ceilinged, stone walled room before our session, to practice their art; it was the sort of place where you could write a proper story. Where elevated thoughts could swing freely. There was a real sense of community, setting up the room, a part of me unfolding along with the tables and chairs that we fetched from a side corridor. We even had tea and biscuits. Now we have to make our own and stare at the screen as other writers appear in boxes, like an edition of Celebrity Squares.
We all watch the space, waiting for the man in blue to appear but all we see is an aspidistra or some such plant standing amongst rows of colourful book covers, crowding the shelves. Finally he arrives brandishing a wicked smile and I wonder what devious plan he has for us tonight. What torturous line will he have dreamed up.
The line which appears on screen but it makes no sense to me; the words jumble before my eyes and unable to write a word, my mind a blank, I start to drift off again. I find myself thinking about ‘Just a Minute,’ the radio programme with the late Nicolas Parsons. Paul Merton and gang given the deadline of one minute to talk about a subject without repetition, hesitation or deviation. But this was not helping, I still hadn’t written any words down. I check my watch to see how much time I have left, to find there is only just a minute.
When it’s my turn to read I simply say…. pass.