Not Writing

Words. Sometimes, I don’t know what to say, you know, on the page. I mean, often I don’t know what to say. What are my words?

Then they come to me, sometimes in a rush, sometimes drawn out like removing a splinter from my finger.

In a rush can be as difficult as being drawn out. Rushing to get it all down can be like tripping over my own feet. The ache can be as great as being drawn out like blood. Although, I have to say, nothing is worse than getting nothing.

I’ve picked up books lately, to inspire me, books left out in boxes out the front of houses. (The things you see when you walk dogs) Tobias Wolff, Tim Winton, David Marr, Ann Bronte, Harry Potter. Tim Winton and Tobias Wolff always inspire me to write, maybe the rest will too. I remember writing a lot after I finished Breath. It is doubtful Harry Potter will inspire me. I read half of the first book before I put it down mumbling rubbish under my breath. I’ve never been inclined to pick up another.

I wrote a lot at the beginning of lockdown, but I have been pretty lazy for the longest time now, collecting dvds and movies and watching YouTube instead. My two great distractions.

Endless days, like this will never end. It’s good, I don’t want it to end. It’s like life has suddenly become civilised, no more commuting, it is good. I mean, my commute was always just a walk into town – I would have topped myself years ago if it was a 2 hour drive in traffic morning and night, I’m not that attached to life, to do that – but this is nicer. Gentle. Grown up. Just have to go into the study and switch on a laptop, that is my commute now. It is like it should always have been.

Maybe, I am too relaxed? Maybe I need a bit more angst. What is it they say, a happy life never does a writer any good.