There are lots of reasons not to write. There’s always
washing up, unwashed clothes, sunny weather, screaming children, illness,
demanding friends, demanding partners, demanding assignments and the list goes
on. As time goes on the list grows. The romantic image of the poet sitting
under an oak tree with a bound book and quill is long gone. It doesn’t really
happen; not unless you want to get rained on, crapped on by a bird, distracted
by dog walkers, a numb cold arse and potentially bitten by an irate territorial
squirrel. Don’t have the time or patience to find a nice oak tree and sit under
it. A beautiful big oak tree has probably never met Blackpool either. Anyway…
Despite these reasons I’ve found that once I have this idea
in my head, an idea that niggles and grows and pisses me off until I submit and
put pen to paper I can’t stop. I’ve finished my first year of my degree; have
three long summer months and suddenly the reasons dissolve. There won’t be
washing up piling because I snack when I write, there won’t be unwashed clothes
because I slob in my pyjama’s in front of the laptop, there will be no
demanding friends because they’ll forget I exist in my absence, no partners as I
won’t be out for that to be possible, the demanding assignments are gone and if
I fall ill then the bad mood will be channelled into an ugly death scene
somewhere.
Time is nice to have; it’s rather essential for a writer.
And when’s it’s given generously we use it. Not under an oak tree though; tends
to be in a warm home in a little cave of duvets and empty used mugs. When time
lends itself properly the reasons disappear. If 10 minutes only are to spare
then I’ll do the washing up and go look at the world but if given a few hours
then I give myself over to fantasy completely. What I’m saying is time tends to
dictate whether I give the reasons any power over me.
