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  • When my son who is 1 is causing chaos as always, toddling uncontrollably around the house disrupting everything, tearing books off the shelves and rubbish from the bin, under my old desk he opens this little suitcase. Inside is piled my old stories and plays. He plonks one in my lap and teeters off.

    This story in my lap hasn't seen the light of day for years, its dog-eared pages are pierced with a rusted staple in its corners. It's called 'Dreams of Flying'. It's not a story so much as a recitation of a dream. I read it and it's good. Well, it makes me feel good. I remember that I can write, and the joy of it. When I write, my thoughts are in order, instead of just hanging out in my head, like delinquent teenagers outside a 7-11, spitting and swaggering and doing nothing useful with their fleeting, gorgeous youth. (Damn teenagers.) When I write I give my thoughts a job and a hair cut and make them useful. At least, useful to me. I realise that my son, that mad little genius, has given me a gift from my own unconscious. 'Write!' It cries. 'Write!'
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