Monday, 2 May 2016
Sylvie stares at me bemusedly as I jot down notes. I began a couple of projects about a year or so ago. They are bundled into a riddle of skeins which I am now, finally, attempting to untangle. Journals brimming with brief sketches, spider diagrams and scribbles clutter the bedside table. There is a book in here somewhere, maybe two. Well it's nice to dream.
I love the initial stage of writing. The stream of consciousness memory jotting. The sideways glancing at humanities eccentricities. I metaphorically (although sometimes when pushed, literally) throw all my notes up in the air and let them fall where they may. It is glorious. But oh, the picking up the pieces and pasting them back into some semblance of order and the knitty, gritty editing and re-editing of drafts is a far less inspiring task. Yet I have felt unusually methodical of late and as a result I already have 10,000 words down.
Ultimately, if no bound tome arises from these crumpled ashes the process of breathing my breath on them till they kindle will seem enough.