It’s that time of night that I prefer for my writing exercise. It is very late, dark and quiet. Nothing is going on outside that has anything to do with me . I’ve spent the day again. There is no time left for any duty or errand or guilt. This is the time of night, crack of the new day that I seem comfortable with my pouring of words onto some surface.
Late to computer skills I prefer the use of a three ring binder, fluid black pen and a notepad for fly by ideas. I prefer to keep this all in an printed orange Bahamas cloth bag, slung either on my shoulder or tossed in preparation in the backseat of the car. The only trouble is that it is now often left there, forgotten in the backseat.
The actual use of this blog and it’s technical aspects has started to fade from my experience as well. Desperate times require desperate action.
This past week I went to a book event and this week I plan to visit with some local writers. Just doing those two things seems to have injected some enthusiasm back into my writing attempts.
It seems to be the stress of having to type rather than physically write that annoys me at the moment.
Here in the darkened house I have only the one light on in the corner of the living room and it casts a gentle nursery glow. In front of me now is the clinical office glare of the computer screen. I find it intimidating and yet the features of computer writing are useful for editing and review or should that be review and editing.
All of it is an excuse for not doing the work. When I was about eighteen I wanted to study to be a journalist and also write novels. That didn’t happen. What happened instead was tragedy, graduation, bereavement, marriage, university studies, family issues, loss, more work, teaching, having a baby, weight issues, divorce, raising a child,more tragedy, more work , non stop teaching, more studies, bills, repairs, friends, loss, another bereavement ,health changes, responsibilities, exhaustion, fatigue, retirement and then sitting on the yard swing, reflecting back as far as possible.
The step of starting this blog about eight years ago was the crack of the night that I needed. It started some writing and endured for a good run. It ran itself out and then went away exhausted again but not to die.
The writing notebook, the note pad and the fluid pen are mostly still in the backseat but have recently shifted around. Sometimes the notepad is stuffed into a purse and used at a whim. The notebook is flipped through occasionally. New black fluid pens were recently purchased and one has leaked rather badly into the lining of my purse.
At the book talk this past week I made some notes while being scathingly critical of the speakers( internally in my head) and making abrupt (thankfully silent) judgement calls on their work which I knew nothing about. At the end of the book talk I left in a hurry to avoid making eye contact with these speakers who were actually writing and publishing their work. However, at the exit I turned and spoke to one writer and expressed thanks for her contribution to the evening. Wasn’t that big of me?
A few evenings ago, during the wee hours of the night I did a tiny piece as a homework assignment for my pending visit to the local writers group. I’ve received several welcoming emails from one of the members and read the upcoming agenda for our meeting. Tonight at the crack of midnight I have considered the universality of writing (another point for discussion at the upcoming meeting) and found myself stumped.
My only thought about this universality point was that I have reached some readers around the world with my blog posts and usually had the most positive reaction from my poetry. Yet, this isn’t a poem. It is nothing more than an essay (of sorts) on finding that collapsed writing than ran frightened into the woods somewhere and nurturing it again with enough jazz to give it the will to live. All of this. timed from the crack of midnight to 12:38 am. ,not including review and editing.