We all do it.
We all seek approval for our scribbles.
When someone asks to read our work, we are all a flutter…
Our words will see the light of day, the passion on the pages released!
But stalking that euphoric landscape, in that vista of bliss lurks a distant figure on a horse.
The rider has always been there – he existed before you started writing.
The horse isn’t black, the rider doesn’t wear a cloak and hood – no scythe can be seen.
This rider isn’t death.
The man’s name no one knows for sure – for he has many and yet he also has none.
Yet all who tell tales know who he is, all instinctively recognise the rider.
Sometimes he stays on the peripheries, sometimes though he rides up close and tramples the seeds of you work under steel shod hooves.
Sometimes you destroy your own crops first…
You can see him; you could scare him off – you could wave your arms and shout at him to go away – but you don’t.
You stand rigid.
This rider knows your secret shame.
He knows you are scared and so he can slowly canter from the far hill – time is on his side.
You have a small stick and a heart full of passion for your work…
He’s getting closer…
Will you stand your ground, defend the seeds you have sown – or will this crop suffer the fate of so many other failed harvests?
The bark is rough in your hand…