The voices, Anne. The voices, I can’t stop them.
They come to me. When I sleep, when I wake, when I sup.
When I walk down the hall.
The sweet longings of a maiden,
the surging ambitions of a courtier,
the foul designs of a murderer,
the wretched pleas of his victims.
Only when I put their words, their voices, to parchment,
are they cast loose, freed. Only then is my mind quieted. At peace.
I would go mad if I didn’t write down the voices.
Thus says Rhys Ifans as the Earl of Oxford in the absolutely marvellous Roland Emerich film “Anonymous”. Even though I’m always reluctant to define myself a writer, given that I respect so much the work of professional writers and I am, in the best of cases, a scribbler mocking a writer, I remained thunderstruck when I heard these words in the film. Because this is exactly how I feel sometimes. It doesn’t happen very often, given that: a) I am a scribbler and not a writer and b) I’m inconstant. A kind of overweight mad butterfly flying from one curiosity to other, from a book to a tv series, from a tennis match (by the way, thank you Mr. Djokovic and Mr. Federer for the beautiful afternoon) to photoshop. But sometimes it happens. After writing the short story “the letter” Saturday morning I had the voices of the characters talking so loud in my head that I couldn’t even hear an audiobook while I was making the intellectually fulfilling apartment cleaning-up. They kept talking, talking, I was actually seeing them. Fortunately it was the Saturday of a weekend and I could write in the afternoon a small sequel, called “Postscript” that will be published as soon as one of my dear friends edit the text. The funny thing is that, when I finished writing those 1.806 words, the voices stopped. Finito. Acabado. Ya está.
Now I come back to them, in my mind, to see my characters where I left them, I guess like that I mother spying her sons.
I sometimes hear voices in my mind, and when I succeed in writing them, I feel really good.