Writers' Island : Chapter 3 : Nick Makes Himself At Home

24/1/20

    Victor was one of the organisers. He met Nick and the fellow writers who had come off the boat earlier that afternoon when they arrived at the café and the registration building. He had registered them in turn, given them their room numbers and sent them off to check into their rooms in the monastery building, which was now essentially a hotel for writers. “Go to your rooms and settle in. To those of you who have never been to this Writer’s Island before, I would suggest you balance a bit of group activity, designed to encourage revelation of your abilities and your imagination, with some socializing to make you feel relaxed, with some of your own more serious work on your own projects. Have a couple of hours settling in to the computers in your rooms or working on your projects, or just relax and socialize with the newcomers and a handful of people who may be hanging around because they have been staying here for a week or two already, but are still here with you newbies.”

    Victor was a friendly sociable type with an obvious sense of humour, well into his fifties, Nick thought, although he could quite possibly be into his sixties. He seemed nonetheless to possess plenty of energy and be forever young. He was a fairly handsome tall chap, but his hair was a bit overgrown and now rather grey. Nick seemed to recognize this man liked his music, and had probably devoted much of his life to literature. No doubt they would find out more about the man as the weeks went by.

    “We will have a gathering of all the newcomers on the grass over there at 4.30 pm,” he gestured to the smooth sunny grassland between the café the registration building and the monastery. “We will just do an introductory, icebreaking session, which will involve a few writing ideas in groups, just to introduce ourselves to each other.”

3/10/19

    Nick relaxed into his room. He was pleased to find it comfortable. There was a good solid table at the right height and a window looking down towards the café and eating hall, and the lovely green grassed parkland, where if the weather was warm he imagined the writers might sometimes congregate. Beyond the parkland the tall trees of the lush forest could be seen, separating the writers in the old monastery buildings from the sea and the normal world on the shoreline. From his window he could just see the sea beyond, over the top of the tall trees, where he had come from, and Tenby in the distance, where his wife probably was right now. He did not miss her, not yet at all, although it would have been nice to have her with him, socializing with people, and helping to get him settled in in his new surroundings. Through her he would have met people he would not have initially felt the courage to meet, or have wanted to meet at all. She would have been sure to have bounced him into some meetings he would not have made on his own. Here on his own he was forced to rely only on himself, and it was good for him to have to do the initial talking and find his own way. He could direct conversations his own way, and as these were writers they could talk about writing and ideas all the time, instead of being encumbered by the inessential normalities of life. He was free to leave the real world and escape to this island of solitude and pretension, of fantasy and therefore excitement, and perhaps of fulfilment, creative, spiritual, and intellectual.

Dec 2019

    Nick spent a couple of happy hours sitting in his room, looking out of the window, while beautiful clear open pages of paper lay sprawled in front of him, opened up for him to place his ink upon. This was paradise for the committed writer, free time to do with as he wished. They were open pages in which he could write anything he could possibly choose. He could create anything he wanted. He could make up an entirely new world, rewrite history, or make the fictional future exactly what he wanted. He had sole power to do what he wanted, with absolutely anything he chose, characters, Kingdoms, nations planets, wars, or such sexual or romantic whims he might imagine, if he so chose. The pen was power, a power far greater than the sword of destruction, or the responsibility for money. He could do anything with it, go anywhere with it, or say anything.

     Some writing he did on the computer in his room, working on the files he brought with him, building up the jigsaw puzzles of each project, editing, rearranging, filling in the gaps. The blank computer page was every bit as much of a thrill as the sheet of paper or the pages in a notebook. Often he found paper more portable. He could write anywhere; in a car, on holiday, on a balcony, or in a hotel room, or even on a beach; which allowed him to spend many hours, not being bored on a beach, while Danielle read her books, or made friends with other holidaymakers. Nick and Danielle had been to many exciting places together and they still had many ideas of new places they would like to visit. Wherever they went Nick would find time and places in which to write, often developing new ideas, or receiving new inspiration.