For ideas for posts I need inspiration. Just a little title I need, a little something, and I run from there. Blog-writing is different like that. But I write every day regardless, at least something, journals, stories, memories, monstrous texts, emails, letters.
But some days I don't write too. The reservoir runs dry, all burned-up. But reading and observing and contemplating is part of the writing too. And when I don't write, I am doing these things at the very least.
A job would love to have you work 7 days a week, 10 or 12 hours or so a day. That's shit, to work like that,—driving the truck—good money—maybe—but poor quality of life. You must find balance, life and work. You always need money, no matter how much you get. Unless you will learn to live with what you've got. But don't forget to live while you are accumulating that money then. Else life passes, all burned-out. It's not all about work, work, work, money, money, money, life.
So for writing, I am like this. It would be productive of me to write 7 days a week for 4 or 5 hours or so a day, or more profitable perhaps. But with this writing business, though I view it as a job now, work, I have freedom. Which is what I wanted most all along, freedom. So I don't even pretend that I must work like that, every day for hours and hours. If I want to take a day off, fine. There's no one to stop me. I am free. I can go outside for a walk if I want, whenever. Or I can cook dinner whenever. I can do whatever, whenever. No anxiety or stress I feel, chained to a desk or something, unable to escape, like a prisoner or a slave.
The anxiety comes now in a different way. When I don't write, I know that I must be writing, but I'm not, so I feel anxious, stressed because I am not doing that which I know I must do. But that is the type of anxiety to have, I think, proper anxiety, motivation.
So I do write as much as possible. Every day I try to. But I do respect it too, writing, the Muse. When it feels I'm forcing the pen, and the words and the sentences and the ideas just aren't coming, I know I need a break. And I take a walk. Or I read a book. Or I sit in a chair outside and drink tea, watching the world pass, contemplating this and that.
And then, when I sit again to write, after a break, after some quiet, I am bursting at the seams. I overflow. Words fall out my nostrils. Thoughts evaporate off the ends of my hairs. I scribble what I can, this and that. It spills out of me. It flows out into the yard. I open the door. A slop of hot gravy escapes, covering the dandelions and the little spiders and the birds. I open the window. A sparrow flys in. Hello, it says to me, tweet, tweet, tweet. The dog barks in the corner. I throw it a biscuit, my last, just to keep the damn thing quiet. I throw the biscuit out the window actually, a better idea. The dogs leaps—splash—into the gravy, the fat, little mutt, and drowns.
On the beach in Portugal it happened too. I had no money. I had nothing at all to do. So I got a pen and a notebook. And the words came like the waves—always. It flowed, creation from nothing in the sand, scorched by the sun. Like walls closing in all round me it was, with no money, ita nothing to do. They eventually smash me, these walls. And all this creativity bursts out of me, like a fat, juicy grub smashed with the fingers, words, words, words, colors, images, songs, sounds, smells, ideas, very noxious stuff, this, memories, faces, all disfigured, all mixed together, a big mess of it.