Sitting down to write has felt impossible. Everything is an itch or an issue. I can’t get comfortable and then, I don’t have anything to say, There is a disquiet, a restlessness and a boredom behind this. I feel too lazy to tease the words out. The words, that will inevitability spill out of me garbled and flawed. They will require rearranging. Sentences will be replaced and the new ones will require open heart surgery. I have been so fast, that it is painful to consider going this slow.
The kind of writer I am is a blind writer. I don’t know how to plan. I feel the interior of the narrative with eyes closed. I spend weeks looking for the doorway, the window, the toilet, only to find I’ve opened the cupboard and stepped inside, I’ve peed out of the window and flushed the flowers.
Weeks pass while I pretend I am in the kitchen, while all along I have been in the living room. Nothing happens. My lack of discipline dictates that I find the space by accident.
I approach other parts of life this way too. My head spins in the mazes I create. Avoidance, until I am so pricked by situation that I must look up at myself. Then it feels life a relief to see what is really going on. I am actually in the backyard, pulling weeds, seeing.