Last night I felt like a writer again.
Since I’ve been thinking about what success to me is, the less I’ve felt like writing. I’ve been far more interested in sewing, or painting, or watching crap television. In short – I want a holiday!
But I’ve also been that special sort of grumpy that I get when I haven’t written. A little bit short (it’s not my fault, blame genetics! My dreams of being NZ’s top model are dashed!), a little bit antsy, a little bit dull. Yep, a classic come down off “the writing” (perhaps that’s why I’m keen on the crap telly at the moment).
Last night as I tried to get to sleep, a little sketch of an old flatmate (actually his feet but I assure you there is nothing fetishy about it!) insisted that it be written down. Now. I did the old trick of reassuring my brain that I would indeed remember the whole thing in the morning and if it would be so kind as to power down now so I can have a little sleep…
…but it wasn’t fooled. So it played the scene over and over in a continual loop until I turned on the light and exorcised the bloody thing to paper.
Interestingly it was a description of my former flatmate without it being a description – we know that he is a drummer and a chef because of what has happened or is happening to his feet. So it is, perhaps, an oblique practice run of my description of January and Mae.
I was also surprised at how much I remembered about that flat – our first in Wellington (and not far from where we live now). Mainly because we spent a lot of time stoned…but I guess it is a long term memory now!
I’m happier this morning having remember why I write. It is not fame, fortune but actual need. Otherwise I’d never get to sleep.