I was walking down the street the other day, minding my own business as much as any writer does; which is to say poking my nose into every sound, shape and smell that happened across my path, when I walked past three young girls. The oldest, she might have been about ten, was holding a mobile phone.
She peered at the screen and read this:
“Hi, I’m Michael and I’m seven. And my sister just murdered me.”
The girl then laughed, and by the time anything else was said I was out of earshot.
Around the corner and far away I realised that these words were still bounding around inside my skull. So I typed them into my phone thinking ‘that’d make a good opening for a story!’
I notice that I seem to be writing a lot about death (and about death a lot) recently. This worries me somewhat. I don’t go through life thinking about death. I don’t dream about it. I think it’s fair to say that death is not a big part of my life. And yet, still, I keep killing my characters.
If there are any psychologists, psychotherapists or psychiatrists reading this, then feel easy about giving me a free thirty-second consultation.
Other than that – have yourself a fine day.
And don’t worry – I’ll do my best not to incorporate you into my fictional world.