The path of writing is pocked with rabbit holes. I can remember each and every time the moment before the first fall, the peeking into the darkness, my hands wrapped over the edge and the grass tickling my fingers. There is something there, I would say, I can feel the eyes upon me. And then, without warning, the plunge; free-falling into those subconscious dreams as your fingers lay gently on the keys of your laptop. The miracle of the first line forming, spinning by you as you reach out and grab hold, while the sounds of ticking clocks and whistling teapots whirl in your ears. Sometimes you thud to the ground, that horrible feeling of being lost in a thought and not knowing where you are, the dreaded jabberwocky writer’s block. But you push forward, a small tasty morsel of inspiration settles in your jaw; you shrink down into your story, turn the key in the lock and open the door. What delights fill your eyes as a garden of characters greet you. The persistent flowers wanting to know what kind of writer you are, the intuitive caterpillar not resting until you answer his questions of ‘who,’ ‘what,’ ‘where,’ ‘how,’ and ‘why,’ the childish twins helping you remember things of your youth, those tidbits of memory adding to your tale, adding together a little madness, a little hare-brained concoctions of your own imagination, and “ta-da,” your story forms and weaves until the climax. All the while, the Cheshire cat in your heart smiles and moves you on. The climax stares down at you with an axe in her hand. She is the moment of ultimate revision when your story either collapses or succeeds. All the cards are in your hand. You play the game, you shuffle the stack, rearranging and reinventing until you stand tall over the creation of this dream. All your fears, all your passion, and all your days of winding down wordy paths, now complete and ready for the world. The jabberwocky is slain, your story has grown-up and the white rabbit waits for you a little ways down the trail. So, wake up to dream. Inspiration is right in front of your eyes. Come, follow me; I see another rabbit hole.
Galileo said, “Facts which at first seem improbable will, even on scant explanation, drop the cloak which has hidden them and stand forth in naked and simple beauty.”
Simplicity often reveals truth, whereas there is confusion in an overabundance of words. I do not claim to be an academic, nor do I ascribe to the level of a scholar who spends her days wrangling with Stratfordians about the identity of “Mr. W.H.” or “the Dark Lady.” I am simply a writer who finds beauty in words, the way certain phrases roll off the tongue, the transcending feeling that a mere paragraph can invoke, or when a novel shows the commonality of the human condition. In that beauty, that naked and simple beauty, stands stark truth uncluttered by a convocation of words. At last, seeing the forest and not just the trees.
Facts that Stratfordians voice as improbable – the fact that Christopher Marlowe is the true writer of the plays and sonnets – even on scant explanation, such as I am able to produce being as I am just another common enthusiast, has indeed, to my mind, dropped the cloak which has hidden them and stands bared for all the world to see. Truth is simple. Truth is the one person shouting that the emperor is naked when all others shut their eyes, look away or refuse to believe. And the simplicity of it relates to the everyday ordinary person, which is the vast majority of the world.
If the world was able to be presented with the simple facts concerning Christopher Marlowe, as I was, there would be no more doubting. Even if the academic world can never produce solid evidence, we have more than reasonable doubt here that William Shakespeare had the skills, education, knowledge of languages, etc. to produce such profound verse. Simply put, he was an actor, not a playwright or poet.
Christopher “Kit” Marlowe, on the other hand, was gifted at an early age with skills that exceeded his years. Educated at the best schools and surrounded by those who prodded him, he travelled to the continent, he excelled in languages and proved himself a capable playwright and poet well before his twentieth year. Where was Shakespeare during those years? Still in Stratford, married with three children, with no evidence that he wrote a single thing.
Again, Galileo, an academic himself, revealed the answer in relation to these two men. Simple truth trumps pretentious fabrications any day. All you have to do is to remove the veil from your eyes, to stop gorging on the Shakespearean propaganda fed to you through the years, and hear the ring of truth sounded in Marlowe’s own words in Sonnet 76: “Why write I still all one, ever the same, and keep invention in a noted weed, that every word doth almost tell my name, showing their birth and where they did proceed?”