Finally.
Ooh. The moment finally comes, when the urge to get out of bed outweighs the desire to stay prone, comfy and cosy. At least it’s only half ten, could easily have spent the whole day in bed. But when the wave of motivation comes you gotta ride it. If you do, there’s a chance that everything will fall into place.
The binmen might actually come for the first time this month, you’ll do those things you’ve been putting off and feel well proud of yourself, shave, put together that thing, clean whatever it was that needed cleaning. It’s always harder to do the shit you want to do, the shit you have to do is easy, things ride on it, but the things I want to are much harder.
Which seems so stupid.
I like, love doing these bits and pieces, but they are harder. Harder because there isn’t the same sort of existential pressure on them. If I don’t write, nothing will happen, but if I don’t go to work, then fairly obvious things will.
But there’s a different sort of existential pressure, if I don’t ever do the things I want to do, then what am, who am I?
And I begin to look inwards and consider, contemplate the ruin of the image I have of myself, who I am and what I want to be, if I want to be a ‘writer’, then I have to write, right?
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If it’s who I am, then it’s what I do.
I imagine, presume, that it’s the same for poets, artists and painters. And then I was going to write, “but where do they find the time?” and then I think about my eight hours a day screentime — but them I say to myself that that is my inspiration — but there is a line because whenever I actually sit down here at this second desk and put the writing light on and get to a song that seems to fit and settle into it I have not suffered a lack of inspiration in so long.
And I know that this is something to be happy about — but in fact it draws me back to that same lazy introspection of NOT doing this as much as I could (should).
Beyond that I think of the difference between the writing I actually do — these short stories on Medium, that I know have become more interspersed with more of these self-indulgent musings, and the longer, harder stories I want to write.
But all writing is good writing, and in a very sort of pat myself on the back kind of way, I do think I’m getting better.
As a writer, as a person? Perhaps I wouldn’t go that far. I wonder if one day, I’ll be writing ‘enough’, for myself and I’mm be able to sit back and say “finally” — but then would my qualms be with the amount, or the quality or the perceived level of success? What if there is no “finally”?
Well it’s no good to not even try.
