And here I am again; four more pages.
I like this early bird gets the worm way of working.
If only I could do it full-time and make a good living out of words. Others do it. Why not me?
But this entry is about the process of practice. And how practice is a lonesome word.
I swivel left and right on a too-green plastic chair. These chairs have castors to let them slip away from me just when I need one. The grey top-tray matches my sullen mood. As does the rainy morning outside.
My damp umbrella crouches to my right. I ignore its pleadings. It wants me to wrap it up and keep it safe in my satchel. This is the satchel that stays on a shelf below my desk. Sorry, Ms. Brolly, you’ll have to dry yourself off for now. I’ll be back for you later.
I take a sip of warm water from my “I love my job, it’s the work I hate” mug, and stare off into space.
This is what a wet Wednesday morning in Tokyo amounts to.
“And what does it amount to, then?” Cynical me lives inside my skull. He loves winding me up.
At first I resist any urge to reply. But the cynic is persistent. I think for a while. Then I give me both barrels. What does it amount to? You ask. Why, it amounts to a mountain of evidence. I point to my A6-size notebook. Two cartridges explode deep within. Now, make room, and let me mop up what’s left of your argument.
(Note: No generative artificial intelligence (sic) was used in this post. The first draft was handwritten as part of a method writing practice session. All was created by a fallible human - me.)
