This week, I seem to have run out of things to say …
I keep a file of cuttings from newspapers and magazines, stuff I can use in my blog. It’s got stuff about the internet, obesity, latest gadgets, time, censorship, addiction, and all kinds of material which I optimistically thought interesting.
Browsing through the sheafs of yellowing paper, I’ve found them fundamentally boring.
Perhaps today is a write nothing, no ideas day!
It’s suppose to be a writer’s nightmare: the terror of the blank page. What, oh what, do I tap on my keyboard?
In my creative writing classes, I’ve proclaimed: Write Anything.
Just tap away, doesn’t matter if its utter drivel or pugnacious nonsense. Just put those words down. Forget spelling. Forget grammer. Get into that “automatic writing” mode. If you have to, get posessed by some demonic spirit!
Then after a page or so (after the exorcist has come and gone), you might see something.
A pattern. A character. A plot even.
A picture says a thousand words, according to that old cliché. So I thought of perhaps just posting some photos I’d taken over the last few weeks.
Nothing professional. All amatuerish stuff.
Mostly taken by my “poor man’s” Nokia. Low quality stuff.
My ten-year-old son once asked me: “Why don’t you have an iPhone?”
“I don’t want to be like everybody else,” I replied.
“But they’re so cool, Dad!”
“I know. I know”.
(Warning: may only be an imagined conversation. Do not quote in your university dissertation.)
I’m most impressed though that my wife’s iPhone has a compass. That’s pretty cool. I get lost all the time. But all the social networking stuff just drives me bonkers!
After all, it’s more stuff to write about. Especially not today. Today is my no-writing day, I’ve decided.
Today, I’ll go for that walk. I’m going to call the electrician. Perhaps even that roof-plumbing guy to check out the leak in the roof. Today, I might even polish my shoes which I’ve been meaning to for the last month.
Might even charge up my digital SLR and go take some photos.
Or go poke a branch at some rotting seaweed on an empty beach!
I’m not even going to read either. No way. Hemingway can stop tolling his bells. All that’s too close to writing. It’s reverse-writing actually.
I will not write this day.