Onward I strive albeit from reflection

Forgive my tardiness.

The following text/s are from September 2019.

Day 1

It is slightly more chilly inside than out. This has nothing to do with the weather, although the chill of the evening promises an early morning frost. The sky is clear with a new moon peeking through slithered gums. The moon is resolute and concise; there is no confusion about its navigation through darkness.

Inside is cold despite the smug fire. Atmospheric one could say. Coolness delivered in monosyllables. Layers of resentment and bitterness in a lasagna of life together reheated with familiar scenarios and circular arguments. It has lost its flavour and become almost inedible. Such a sad place frozen in lost hope and communication.

He postulates as the victim. He likes it there. From a position of ‘woe is me,’ he can manipulate the story-line. She is not such a good player. She is usually the one to lose temper and raise volume. She is tempestuous, emotional and unfortunately for her, forgetful as she grows older. Memory betrays her. She leaves the house furious from the latest slight and by the time she returns, she only knows that she is angry with him – the cause forgotten. This makes her indignant.

He takes advantage of this and uses it to taunt her in small nondescript ways that leave no trace.

This is not what I want to write.

I have taken on a challenge to write 30,000 words in the 30 days of September – 1000 words a day. One thousand!

In the past, I have achieved this, sometimes more, sometimes less. Often I do not bother to count. Nevertheless, this is the challenge I am undertaking. I have objectives and a plan but already I have strayed from my chosen path onto one led by intuition borne of the moment.

I sit at our kitchen table with headphones on. I have never written with the music so close to my ears. But it is cold in the room where my desk is, so I sit in warmth, headphones limiting my soundscape to Bach, overriding the TV and conversation. Both of which are enemies of the writing process, especially that of being in the moment and capturing random thoughts to express on paper.

The headphones bring in a world of sound that is slightly distracting – external stimuli denying mood or thought not fluid with its melody. I know nothing of Bach, so I remain at the whim of his direction. My first attempt attests to this – I could not maintain the angst and tension required with his melodious cello serenading so intimately.

Already rejected, these words formed by argument and sorrow in an attempt to express my weekend sadness. To no avail. Bach would have none of it. He seems too clean and light, at odds with my struggle to put words on paper. So I change tract. I decide to write in the moment alongside Bach. My dribble flows, encouraged with intent to put down 1000 words.  My writing muscle is slack and I excuse myself with a warmup. Retrain my muscle to work alongside inspiration to enthuse discipline and harness this many words into something that can be read. I am a writer, after all. Will any of this be used somewhere else. Not this bit for sure, the rest, well who knows. That is not necessarily the goal. First things first and I aim to get back into the habit of writing. Thinking of phrases, expressions, writing intimately; that chain of thought that flows down my hand through pen onto paper. I like this type of writing and do not hesitate to let it purge itself. This is indeed a very fine exercise.

The other intention is to write scenarios or chapters for my novel. I am stuck in a holding pattern where I know where I want to go but I don’t know how to get there. Yet. I figure if I practice writing every day for 30 days, then surely something of value might come visiting. I hope so. I guess another reason why I have embarked on this challenge is to reintroduce discipline into my life. I was disappointed that I did not seem capable of taking advantage or embracing the gift of time, days, nights, and weeks, that as a non-salaried working woman with a room of her own, possessed, and basically wrote fuck all. Staring me in the face was an illusory neon sign illuminating my lack of discipline, and with this lack, I lost a sense of purpose to life. So I took on a job in the city for 3 days to give me a commitment I could keep. While this disguised escape route gives me a defined purpose of being, it also means I do not write. Not to Bach, not at all. My inspiration has dried up, immersion has faded. I need to grow a backbone and write.

Admittedly, I want to finish my second manuscript. I think it is a good story. It just needs telling. But where has my motivation run off to? So now I find myself writing free flow, letting words build up without censorship or judgement into sentences, into paragraphs, into hope that my story will re-emerge.