Tales from the dark side. A ghostly little story about writing.

Imagine I’m writing this in the amber glow and flitting shadows cast from a tall, draught-haunted candle. And maybe I am. The sun slipped away too early today, overwhelmed by threatening cloud, and with the dusk came the rattle and rustle of cold rain against my darkening window. 

I set aside my writing for a moment, aware that the threshold between day and night stands before me. That liminal space, a time ‘in-between’ where shadows deepen darker-on-dark and moments stretch out, relaxing like a cat before an open fire. Time feels like it’s slowing. Beneath the faint candle song, a deep silence booms.

It’s not just at the witching hour that our ghosts and demons find us. They’re here too, as I write. I feel them at my elbow, jostling for attention. Maybe you know the number and names of your personal demons? Let me introduce you to some of mine. 

The Saw is here, breathing raggedly down the back of my neck, revving up ready to rip through the copy I thought I’d perfected. No manicure this, but a fume-filled, bloody massacre.  Stubble, rubble and remorse is likely all that will be left. The Saw has dogged my desktop since high school, tearing through BIC-on-paper essays. My Gen S monster thinks ‘digital’ is what’s sewn back on after a chainsaw juggling contest. So once it’s retreated, sated, to the pit that spawned it I’ll make the reincarnation rune  ⌘+Z to undo its evil. All is well – until the inevitable sequel. 

And then there’s my slick and seductive blood sucker, ageless and deathless, with learning and memories spanning centuries and continents, arts and sciences. Charming and flattering each time I renew its acquaintance. Ruthlessly capable of draining my creative essence, lapping at its sweet and hidden source as I swoon. A shapeshifter, an imitator, it has many names but no soul. I know I can and should master it: but oh to be the disciple! Could this be my Twilight, or will it be Fright Night again? 

And now, as the writing spirits reach their most mischievous, I am shadowed by a stinking metaphor. Way past its use-by – an Oldie but a Mouldy – its reanimated remains stagger and twitch a path through the inky maze of my words. “Use me,” it begs, “LinkedIn will love you.” I want to resist, but find myself shovelling it onto the page nonetheless. There it’ll sit with its slack-jawed leer, armless maybe but far from harmless, until I summon the will to finally lay it to rest. 

So the day is done. Only, not quite. Now comes the moment to offer up my soul’s work on the altar of The Client. One more goulish challenge to face in The Teams Tomb. Many are the mighty who have fallen here confused and dazed, undone by unquiet ghosts and poltergeists in that machine. Shrouding the share button, throwing unintentional emojis across the room, rendering me mute when I finally summon the will to speak.

Their pallid faces are cast in eerie shadows as they loom out of the mist. Their words are distorted and echoing. Less video meet-up, more clairvoyant’s parlour. I blurt “Welcome to the Seattle Seance, everyone – Enterprise Edition.”

We wish you much creative, productive and peaceful writing. If our little story has raised the ghost of a smile, then our job is done.

Happy Halloween !