Promises and plans formulate while fingers tap keys and manipulate papers, pamphlets and pre-printed labels. They feed a growing eagerness to dash home and occupy spare time accordingly. But, day after day, it never happens. Blame a lack of energy, time, inspiration, and a raft of other excuses. The first concerted effort, three nights ago, yielded a mere four words. Not "What a grand achievement," but something equally mundane.
Weeks later, I commence the second paragraph. Twin Macs with clashing desktops tower over the white carpet, which has the matted shag of an old and much-loved soft toy. Now, unlike before, there’s a satisfactory excuse: moving out, and in, together — hence the not-so-cuddly rented carpet. At this point the sentences should be tumbling out, what with the new feelings of adulthood and excitements such as having full control of the remote, but it’s past ten and I’m in fall-asleep-in-front-of-the-tv mode. Independent living has cured my sporadic insomnia, but what will it do for my writing?
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