After an all-night writing session, I am entitled to my coffee.
I ponder the problem, early-rising cats frothing about my ankles. The grinder is empty and, gourmand that I am, I have only whole beans.
Oh, but I can’t do it to them — they were so good and went to sleep at sensible times. They’re sensibly dampening their pillows whilst I write about wolves in pinstripe suits, stubby yurts, air like oil dragged through pointed teeth, an angry, swirling landscape.
But only three pages. Not even two thousand words. Wait — did I write the first page avant-hier?
It can’t be helped. I am caught up in the ending — the writing is sticky like pitch. I must examine every small flicker of improvisation before it touches paper, else risk the words affixing themselves without much hope of extrication. I don’t have to kill my darlings — instead I must peel them away like cheap labels, picking at them with stubby fingernails. An exhausting process.
No-one is online. I page through familiar websites. The world flickers. Maybe I won’t be able to go running when the sun rises. I should — I won’t ever have a sensible schedule otherwise.
I pick up a cat, and walk to the kettle so I can make myself a sensible cup of tea.
not very alice 
Posted on March 24, 2011 by Alice M.
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