A day’s writing with the Author and the Internal Editor
Wakes up on the two seater loveseat. Alone. Feet dangle over the tiled coffee table. Wrapped tightly about in a duvet. Through the window Thursday clouds threaten rain. Crosses fingers; that would be nice. Heads into the kitchen. Has to rinse himself a clean cup, dishes undone for a while now. Has to empty ashtray but keeps the butts in an airtight jar – for rainier days. They are forecast. Returns to loveseat and re-dresses in the duvet. Thinks of flipping open the laptop.
[ENTERS: Internal Editor]
No point, you’ve got nothing to say.
Reminds himself what Murray said, ‘Activity precedes motivation.’ Hopes that proceeding with typing words, any words, will activate motivation. Flips open laptop.
Isn’t Dr. Oz on TV about now? Today’s topic: Foods that battle the aging process!
Reminds himself that he is only 30. Opens a new document while the ancient laptop whirrs like an air conditioning unit and heats his lap. Decides to begin with a title, seems to get the juices flowing and provide direction. “Finger lickin’ Bad.”
You can’t use that. The Publisher wil have to clear it with KFC first.
Steels himself, and continues: “I am not sure what stop to get off at. I’ve never caught this bus before. I pull the cord just before the hospital to be sure I don’t overshoot. There are two Chinese women behind me speaking to each other in their own language. My paranoia flares up.”
Two things here buddy. You don’t want to alienate the Asian community. I think they buy a lot of books for their kids. Secondly, you don’t want to come across as some kind of neurotic, paranoid case. People at your work are gonna read this. Slip something humane and compassionate in.
“This better be worth it. I hope Hera appreciates this visit. He’s been such an ungrateful and demanding patient.”
Not even close.
Backspace, backspace, backspace.
Starts last section again: “I check my own thinking. Like Sally-Anne remarked, so much of it is automatic and reactive. Of course the Chinese women aren’t talking about me. They got on at the last stop with plastic bags stuffed with groceries. They’re probably talking about dinner. I feel myself relax. But then, as Porirua winds into view and the concrete towers of Kenepuru hospital rise over the low hills I begin to feel panic. Dread. Something I think Sally-Anne would understand. I haven’t seen Hera for so many months. Just how unwell is he this time?”
You don’t have the right to tell this story. It belongs to your family. To Hera. Don’t shame yourself. Don’t shame them. Shame on you.
Becomes for a time despondent. The Thursday clouds which threatened rain now realise it. Mt. Victoria is ushered away in gauze of rain. Fast drops drum against the windows. Flips closed the lid of the laptop. Makes a simple lunch. Does dishes. The idea of doing the washing exhausts him but the idea of lying on the two seater loveseat wrapped in a duvet turns him on. Before giving up for the day, checks his email. His inbox contains a piece of spam from quotationspage.com. Opens it out of boredom and curiosity: ‘If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.’ (George Bernard Shaw) Takes a big breath. Flips open the laptop. Begins to type away, writing towards the fear: “Pulling the cord the bell rings and the bus slams to a stop. The two Chinese women squeal. Like it or not, I have to see Hera. I have to see my brother.”
[EXITS: Internal Editor]
Spends the rest of the weekend dancing with an old family friend.