The alarm goes off. I don’t want to get up, but I know I have to. I was still awake at 5:30, I must have been back to sleep since then because I’ve been dreaming. I swing my feet out and over the edge of the bed, past a cat, sit on the edge, head in my hands, elbow on knees.
I must get up.
As soon as one job is done, there is another waiting, a whole crowd of others, one after another, lined up waiting for me.
It would be horrible to have nothing to do. But with so many things to do, how can I ever find time to think about the things I want to think about? To get that wonderful buzz when the ideas form their pattern in my head, the dance of thought, as they line up and connect, one with another, and form a picture in words. There is nothing else in the world to match it, it is the greatest feeling, the mighty mental orgasm, the thrill of creation, the crackle that leaps from one pole to the other, the lightning strike that brings the monster to life.
The analogy develops. Mostly, for me, it is mental masturbation, but it works even better with a partner, someone who will take the ideas, add a few of their own, and throw them back to me, showing me something new and thrilling which was there all along but which I would not have spotted on my own.
But trapped alone in my room, the ideas batter themselves against the windows, while the cat of self-doubt watches them patiently, ready to pounce on the slightest sign of weakness.
Here I am, what can I do now, what can I write about? Life is so full of Stuff-to-do, great flocks of it, which gather around me, settling on my shoulders and dragging them down.
My chair is broken, it creaks and groans as I shift in my seat. There is a bolt coming loose underneath it, I try to adjust it while I’m still sitting, I pull my hand back and my fingers are black, I don’t know why, oil maybe.
I had some thoughts about my novel at the weekend, it felt wonderful, that excitement, but how can I ever get that feeling when every day is taken up with so many things that have to be done? I want to soar, but I have to crawl, down here among the daily grind of all the things that have to be done before I go to Paris next week, and after I come back too.
There is only one way to do it, and that is to do it, just get on with it, stop moaning about it, stop thinking about how life could be different.
There is a crash as the keyboard tray falls on the floor. Shit. That keeps happening. I don’t think I’m putting too much pressure on it, but somehow I must be. I think it has got bent out of shape somehow. I’ll ask my daughter to have a look at it, see if she has any ideas. She’s the practical one.