Mother, mother, what illbred aunt
Of what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you unwisely keep 
Unasked to my christening, that she Sent these ladies in her stead 
With heads like darning-eggs to nod 
And nod and not at foot and head 
And at the left side of my crib? 
-Disquieting Muses 1957 Sylvia Plath

 

"Men go out into the void spaces of the world for various reasons. Some are actuated simply by a love of adventure, some have the keen thirst for scientific knowledge, and others again are drawn away from the trodden paths by the "lure of little voices", the mysterious fascination of the unknown" ... Ernest Shackleton ...

I was browsing in Nicola's Warwick's Shackleton page and this quote, that she has chosen to head up her page, resonated for me, tolling like an old church bell, demanding that I stop and take heed. I could never imagine being driven to undertake such a gruelling journey, yet I have been drawn away from the trodden paths by the same fascination of the unknown. My writing enables me to follow in my maternal great grandfather's steps and explore and survey new and different regions.

My exploration all takes place within the mind. Writing fills a very real genetic need, enabling me to be a kind of geographer, surveyor and explorer all at the same time.

My great grandfather stepped into 'the boiler' when he traced the steps of the intrepid explorers who had gone before him, surveying vast tracts of western Queensland. In his journal he writes of enduring the most severe conditions in a region where 'a solitary shepherd or stockman in charge of sheep and cattle endure their periods of isolation in a round of existence that can be scarcely called life."

Here at my desk, a solitary writer, I am spared such excruciating conditions, but the demands of being a writer, explorer, are considerable. The 'little voices' in my head demand expression and so I must come, on a daily basis, to purge myself of the words that threaten to flood my system and drown my sanity. I cannot hold them back. No dam is big enough. These words simply must find expression as my quest to unravel the unknown, to unlock the secret of creativity continues. No sooner does one idea gain life on the page than another bubbles to the surface demanding equal space.

So I come back and back, driven to write more and more. Like Sisyphus my task is never complete. I am left to push my pen across the page, glide my finger tips across the keyboard, at odd times of the day. It is indeed a disquieting muse who has gained power over me and haunts my every move. What is it that draws you to travel untrodden pathways?