A Writer's Diary - Part 2: The Text
The fact is, I don’t know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn’t collapse when you beat your head against it.
- Douglas Adams
Her gaze dragged past the reflections in the window pane, and sloped in a zigzag across the greening lawn outside.
It wasn’t an exploring kind of gaze; it was a reluctant but helpless kind of gaze, fighting not to be drawn towards whatever it was that it was drawn towards.
Because let´s face it: It wasn’t drawn towards anything in particular.
No; her gaze was always drawn towards something; a lot of the time that something was just a great big pile of nothing. Nonetheless, it was always drawn.
And it was odd, really, for her eyes were so tired. She wanted nothing to do with her eyes being drawn, not at all, yet still - here she was.
It was greening outside. The trees had sprouted a little more vigor only since this morning, and the lawn was now less wither-y yellow, and more poutingly yellow-green splotched.
It was a funny sight, and it was an annoying sight. It was more a picture in her mind than a sight, if she were totally honest. An association, more than a picture.
And now she was annoyed with her own thoughts.
She flicked her eyes back to the computer screen, and dumped a brick of a sigh right on the keyboard.
Was it so hard to write a fucking essay? Or a short story? Anything, really? It wasn’t exactly rocket science, and she definitely wasn’t a scientist, yet she knew she had the words in her - so how hard could it really be?
Super hard, it turned out.
She sighed again, this time really grinding it down, in and under the keyboard pads; really defiling the computer with her own frustration.
So what it if wasn’t good on the first go. No one ever wrote a good first draught.
So what if it wasn’t everything she wanted it to be; her soul poured out on the screen in word-form; her mind´s story effortlessly told in a fell, overwhelming sweep?
So what.
She stretched her arms above her head, un-cricking her neck. A lukewarm sip of pinkish-red apple tea. A gulp of more apple tea. In fact, why not just down the whole mug in three giant swallows.
She did.
Her phone buzzed.
No looking at the phone, no looking at the phone, no looking at the phone.
Her eyes darted sideways.
A green message bubble glared at her.
Laughing my arse off xD xD
Don´t open it.
Her finger snaked towards the screen.
You cunt.
It was from one of her friends. A TikTok video of a guy being straddled and handcuffed by the police, the whole time spouting one-offs and obscenities and mouthing off at the officer handcuffing him. It really wasn’t that funny.
She sniggered.
When the felon shouted «PINEAPPLE JUICE!» just as the officer shut the police car door in his face, the snigger became a roar.
She was. The worst. Writer. Ever.
Stop being so mean, she told herself. Just because you’re easily distracted, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer.
Yeah. Only she hadn’t written a proper something in months. Or, years, really.
A sea of sheep huddled in the field across from the lawn now, drawing her eyes away from the computer before they could even snag on it.
But they were nice sheep, she thought. A little plumper and more cuddly than normal sheep. Except they weren’t really any different than any other sheep, it was just that these sheep were in her window - and she realized, she had missed seeing sheep in her window. Turned out, there was something inherently wrong with a world in which she had no sheep in her window.
So she loved these sheep for that, just a little. Just for being in her window, just here. Just now.
More tea, her addiction commanded.
Fuck off, she told it.
But the distraction had already rooted in her mouth, and so, it climbed through her sensory system, and dug a pit in her brain, and settled there, nice and cozy, while it waited for her to comply to it’s demands.
She snarled and banged her head on the writing desk.
- Douglas Adams
Her gaze dragged past the reflections in the window pane, and sloped in a zigzag across the greening lawn outside.
It wasn’t an exploring kind of gaze; it was a reluctant but helpless kind of gaze, fighting not to be drawn towards whatever it was that it was drawn towards.
Because let´s face it: It wasn’t drawn towards anything in particular.
No; her gaze was always drawn towards something; a lot of the time that something was just a great big pile of nothing. Nonetheless, it was always drawn.
And it was odd, really, for her eyes were so tired. She wanted nothing to do with her eyes being drawn, not at all, yet still - here she was.
It was greening outside. The trees had sprouted a little more vigor only since this morning, and the lawn was now less wither-y yellow, and more poutingly yellow-green splotched.
It was a funny sight, and it was an annoying sight. It was more a picture in her mind than a sight, if she were totally honest. An association, more than a picture.
And now she was annoyed with her own thoughts.
She flicked her eyes back to the computer screen, and dumped a brick of a sigh right on the keyboard.
Was it so hard to write a fucking essay? Or a short story? Anything, really? It wasn’t exactly rocket science, and she definitely wasn’t a scientist, yet she knew she had the words in her - so how hard could it really be?
Super hard, it turned out.
She sighed again, this time really grinding it down, in and under the keyboard pads; really defiling the computer with her own frustration.
So what it if wasn’t good on the first go. No one ever wrote a good first draught.
So what if it wasn’t everything she wanted it to be; her soul poured out on the screen in word-form; her mind´s story effortlessly told in a fell, overwhelming sweep?
So what.
She stretched her arms above her head, un-cricking her neck. A lukewarm sip of pinkish-red apple tea. A gulp of more apple tea. In fact, why not just down the whole mug in three giant swallows.
She did.
Her phone buzzed.
No looking at the phone, no looking at the phone, no looking at the phone.
Her eyes darted sideways.
A green message bubble glared at her.
Laughing my arse off xD xD
Don´t open it.
Her finger snaked towards the screen.
You cunt.
It was from one of her friends. A TikTok video of a guy being straddled and handcuffed by the police, the whole time spouting one-offs and obscenities and mouthing off at the officer handcuffing him. It really wasn’t that funny.
She sniggered.
When the felon shouted «PINEAPPLE JUICE!» just as the officer shut the police car door in his face, the snigger became a roar.
She was. The worst. Writer. Ever.
Stop being so mean, she told herself. Just because you’re easily distracted, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer.
Yeah. Only she hadn’t written a proper something in months. Or, years, really.
A sea of sheep huddled in the field across from the lawn now, drawing her eyes away from the computer before they could even snag on it.
But they were nice sheep, she thought. A little plumper and more cuddly than normal sheep. Except they weren’t really any different than any other sheep, it was just that these sheep were in her window - and she realized, she had missed seeing sheep in her window. Turned out, there was something inherently wrong with a world in which she had no sheep in her window.
So she loved these sheep for that, just a little. Just for being in her window, just here. Just now.
More tea, her addiction commanded.
Fuck off, she told it.
But the distraction had already rooted in her mouth, and so, it climbed through her sensory system, and dug a pit in her brain, and settled there, nice and cozy, while it waited for her to comply to it’s demands.
She snarled and banged her head on the writing desk.
Beundrer måten du klarer å skrive så naturlig og friksjonsfritt på engelsk på.
SvarSlettOg gud skal vite at det kan være syyyyykt vanskelig å finne roa til å skrive i et samfunn som hele tida prøver å dra oppmerksomheten din mot andre ting. Å kunne skrive inne i en sensory depravation tank hadde vært noe. Sjøl har jeg omsider gitt opp og innsett at jeg er nødt til å gå imot alle råda om søvnhygiene som fins og skrive inne på soverommet mitt med ei UV-lampe som eneste lyskilde. Fordi det er for mye stimuli i andre rom, rett og slett? Og det er noe med det blå lyset i UV-lampa mi som jeg liker skikkelig godt. Det strider mot all logikk, jeg veit. Men det funker for meg.
Takk for kompliment, og for kommentar! Divaen i meg blir like glad hver gang!
SlettSensory deprivation tank hadde vært noe! Med dikteringsfunksjon, sånn at man bare trengte å transkribere etterpå xD
Det kan være dritvanskelig å få gjort noe som helst når man er lyd- og lyssensitiv, så den UV-lampa på soverommet skjønner jeg godt. Hvem veit, kanskje du blir skikkelig oppkvikka av den og får sove kjempegodt når kvelden kommer? Lov å være optimist xD
Jeg sliter enn med å finne gode arbeidssteder og skriverutiner, for behovene endrer seg fra det ene ytterpunktet til det andre i takt med dagsformen, og det er vanskelig å finne stabilitet.
Meeeen jeg gir ikke opp!