This morning I wrote two paragraphs in forty-five minutes. Which is far better than my experience yesterday, which yielded one deleted sentence and five more forlorn and shoddily constructed cartoon figures in my sketchbook.
I recall last night attempting to plan my morning. To fix in time an idea for which I would attack with relish once the sound of the alarm had jerked me upright in bed; after I had pulled on my wool socks, slippers, and fleece sweater; after making my way downstairs to feed the cats, drink a glass of water, spill the cat food, clean it up; after having a quick pee and blowing my nose several times to clear the way; after donning my scarf and hat and sitting down at the computer; after tip-tapping the icy keys, logging in and staring for a few minutes at the blank recesses of my mind reflected in the blank white rectangle of my word processor...
But the idea never came. The night was filled with the usual terrors but the only idea that came was an old one. Oddly prompted by a one-word writing exercise. I am not sure if it is a good idea. It's one I have often thought about -- an insistent paralysis -- whether or not to create anything in the face of an empty audience.
Of, course, the answer is "yes." Of course, we are supposed to be driven to create regardless of the work seeing the light of day. And that is the story that I have begun. A work that is forced into the light of day that was perhaps never meant to be...
Wow. For a moment there I was channeling a B-movie-grade version of an H.P. Lovecraft character.
Sorry about that. Won't happen again (LIAR).
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