Greetings, old friend.
I haven't tended to you in some time. But I'm always scribbling something, somewhere, naturally. On free postcards in cafes, in university notebooks, on go-card receipts, in newspaper margins, my docket pad as I pretend to take customer's brunch orders...
I've been stereotypically writerly in other ways, too. I'm growing more hermitted -- the cold weather, the non-desire to find/make costumes for cat-themed parties, and early starts at work have made me reluctant to venture out after dark.
I have not been inspired as yet to start a work, or return to an existing script... But I do feel quite influenced by the habits and work ethics of friends. S who lives in S is writing a book (with good humour, and sharp analysis I dare say) about her relationships/dates/flirtations/bold and saucy encounters of her 20s. N who lives in M has written a comedy feature in like a month. A month! Deeply impressive.
I'm seeking more leisure, less pressure on my creativity. Easing into more relaxing, concentrated and pensive habits where genius undoubtedly will germinate. At the moment, I'm starved for food and company, nursing a head cold. It is somewhat horribly romantic, coughing and wheezing and painting from bed as I grow more and more socially isolated and confident in my dreams for an exclusive LOBSTER COUNTRY CLUB where crustacean-loving people can scurry laterally and slurp hallucinatory seawater to their hearts' content. Oh, the galas we will put on! The gowns, the diamond-encrusted shells! Sand in all the places you always wanted....
*****
I would also like to add that chats with Mother are very comforting and grounding. Other aspiring writers might want to consider talking to theirs or someone else's parent or buying a cheap grey wig and lipstick and doing the ol' Norman Bates. It's a frightfully wholesome good time.
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