At last they come, the final two minutes of morning before work, the crush, sudden, as if the day ahead were a boot and these last few free seconds butterfly wings. And as sudden comes the urge to write, to capture the moments inside the minutes, the picture in the frame.
It’s become harder to write morning pages, and I wonder why. I wonder if it’s a physical thing, I can’t sit at a desk for as long as I could; I wonder (I am terrified) if I have less to say. Does that mean I am more at peace?
What use is a writer without questions?
A writer who doesn’t question is a propaganda-ist, I think. I don’t know, perhaps I should Hamletise and write about my indecision. But that’s navel gazing fart gas and who wants to read that? I don’t even want to think it. Perhaps it’s because I’m not having an affair, not in a swirl of tormented bliss, or in the middle or in the recovery of a major illness. Perhaps it’s that my wife and I have retired from our sport of fighting, retired from hate, and so turmoil stays on the touchline, the unneeded substitute.
When did everything abandon words?
And what is it about our modern world that says we should write a blog. So be it, but be warned, this time information is all you’ll find, not real writing – the real writing as always shows up in books, tucks itself between the folds of a plot, hisses out between the embraces of made up characters who are not very made up at all.
We are supposed to run riot on the face of reality with our questions. Ha. Shit. I’ve done a morning page without realising it, and gone past the two minutes and now my kids are late getting up.
This is not a blog. A blog is to help someone, and who is this going to help? How the hell do I know? It’s what I needed to write. Maybe it’ll help someone who needed to do the same, write what they wanted to write, and who was looking for the nudge over the blogless cliff. No this is not a blog. And that’s all you need to say to write one.