One thing I am noticing is that I write best in the afternoons, in that contented time post-lunch when the mind hovers between asleep and awake, and the body is pulled toward the possibility of a nap. The veil of vision between my imagination and reality seems thinnest then, allowing the muse to descend and inspire. I also write more productively if there is someone else in the house. Perhaps it is because there is someone out there, in the next room, to share my success and struggles with: when prose is stalling, I have a distraction, when the narrative runs its course and is complete, I have someone to congratule me. Such is the way with rewards.
Looking back I realise now that I used to have a different writing routine, depending on my lifestyle at the time. When I was in college, I would write until the early hours of the morning: my most productive hours being when most others were sleeping. By the time I was in full-time employment I would write in the morning, setting my alarm for 5.30am to write furiously for 30mins each working day. But, this lazy afternoon ritual suits me now. If I attempt to write in the mornings I find myself cranky and disillusioned: if writing does not begin well I feel this marks the mood of the day and become sulky and blocked. If I wait until the evening I feel that my time previously has ben wasted and experience pressure to produce, the responsibility weighing upon me enormously, making me reluctant and critical.
The afternoons present possibility and freedom. My one sentence per day allows me to play around with my time, without fear of failure. If I only produce one sentence, then that is all I have set myself and it is good enough. But, often I find myself ushered on by the possibility of that initial idea, eager to see where it might lead and open to the experience of writing for writing’s sake.
I have written this entry before, more eloquently than this: but it was lost to the ether, which irked me. The previous entry ended with the admission that I felt I was becoming a writer, that the exercise of writing one sentence a day was allowing me the confidence to feel as though I am a writer, rather than just simply some impersonator pretending to live the dream. I’m not there yet, but I could be, and it’s this promise of what could be that pushes me foward, slowly making progress and stumbling onward courageously: “...to the dark place where it leads“.