I woke up today, tired as usual, but clear-headed for once. A week ago I set up a daily schedule in an attempt to find some good, solid time for writing. I won’t go into the banal details of my life which made this effort necessary. Let me say simply that I have unavoidable duties which take up about 75% of my waking day, and writing and my paid teaching must live in the remainder.
So….this morning I woke up after a short and fitful night’s sleep to the cold, grim realisation that this schedule was not working. I have written nothing since last Wednesday, and even then it was a piddling, fiddling around with photographs for a book I will finish. No writing. No words that fly and sing, or plunge to the depths. None.
So I lay there and came to the calm, considered realisation that i had run out of time to write. I have been writing for more than ten years now and have a clutch of books to my name. But four years ago I decided to write things that were me – good, pure, unadulterated works of imagination and verve and fire – poetry, prose-poems, an experimental multimedia work – and some history that interested me.
Well, at this precise moment, I have finished my morning rota of duties, and have eaten and am on my second mug of coffee. This fuel has given me the energy to allow myself a last day to write – I will go to church to pray and meditate – then see what unfolds today. I will not force it – poetry is my marker – will any words rise out of me? Or will that blank emptiness that has been my writing continue?
Well, enough for now.