I feel like I’m writing from another hemisphere today. My clock is all out of whack.
I slept very late this morning, later than I’ve slept in months. Today is Day… what day is it anyway? Technically Day 7 of my writing vacation, with vacation really the operative word since I’ve been doing only what I said I’d do all week: write whatever I wanted, no pressure, no rules. So, pressureless, ruleless, I drifted through half-focused dreams on the couch till noon. Then I went to a cafe, Sinatra playing on the stereo (forgive me—I don’t know for sure if it was Sinatra) and a young beautiful girl sat at the table beside me, engrossed in reading Lolita. I worked on a short story while she finished the last of the chapters—hardly blinking, not pausing to take a sip of her frap. The first time I read Lolita, at around her age too, I probably acted the same way. Just having her there next to me, imagining the words flowing past her eyes, made me want to write all the more. Imagine writing a book that possesses you so wholly, one you’re never the same after reading… I’m no Nabokov, but just the thought of writing something that could change another person, maybe, just maybe, being able to someday accomplish that? This might be one of the best professions in the world.
Now I’m at my writing spot, and I love slynne’s inspirational chocolate idea. I got here as the other writers are packing up. It’s the end of their day and just the start of mine.