A new fresh notebook, filled with empty pages and promise. A new document, “open from new blank document”, and write.
And this time it’ll be different. The voices will stay. They’ll stop being shy, come out and tell their stories.
I’ll sit down and write or type until it’s done. No stopping to scroll through Twitter, or Facebook, check the mail, play Pokemon Go, or read that really interesting article.
And the words that are hiding in the corner of my minds eye, will shout “Boo!” and let themselves be caught.
Why won’t they? Why don’t they?
Is it age, or worse? the menopause? I’ve heard of “chemo” brain, is this “Covid”* brain?
Back forty years.
In my Welsh bedroom. Light back on. Writing with youthful pomp, about the cruel words evading me. Dreams of Dylan.
But never the singer
I though this might help.
Making myself write every day. What’s it meant to be? Practice for 10,000 hours and you’ll get proficient?
The wasted time. The times I’ve thought but not written, and then seen it written. Because among 7+ billion why should I have original thought?
The times I’ve thought and written, then seen it written elsewhere.
Because among 7+ billion why wouldn’t it?
And the person who writes it is.
Is a writer. Sits and writes.
Spends the hours.
Is known, has reach.
No! Chase away the resentment. It just curdles. Compacts thoughts into meanness.
I should keep trying. Ha!
But that’s so much more.
Something to read properly.
Instead of scrolling. Instead of playing.
(When normal service should resume)**
*reaction to the Covid situation not suffering from it, as far as I know I’ve not had the virus
** I did this more or less stream of consciousness earlier, and lacking inspiration and nearing Friday night dinner time I pressed post. Hopefully back to armchair travel tomorrow.