I wake up in the morning and the day lies stretched ahead of me like a gorgeous creature, waiting to be seduced. I forget the dreams of the night and indulge in those of the day, promise myself that today I would finish this project or that, I would write a notebook-ful of words.
I’m not sure what happens between the promise of morning and the utter despair that hits before I head towards the bed: no matter how much I try, I reach the end of the day empty-handed, or almost.
A small writer’s life is like a river, it brings a series of droughts and floods.
I’m waiting to become a Ganges or Yang-Tse or Misssisipi one day, so I can flood when necessary, but never dry up in drought.
For the moment, however, I could do with another flood.