Morning Pages, Monday, June 11, 2018
Mint green paint on the walls of this place that’s closing at six for a private event. I’ve got fifteen minutes, they say, and then I’ve got to go. And I will go. What am I? Just some guy with a keyboard. I could go home and write but I know I won’t. I’ll go home and the routine will kick in, and that routine never involves writing. It’s all here, in places that close, where I get my best work done.
I’m meek about it. They’ll say, hey, we’re closing up soon. And I’ll usually leave right then. I won’t wait until just before they lock up. I won’t use up every single minute. I’ll take a short breath, and move my stuff back into my bag. I bought the bag to make myself feel more like a writer. It has the style of pockets writers like. Little pouches for pens and chargers and fetish items. The guy who made my coffee asks me about my keyboard. I feel I came off as smug, but it is nice and I like talking about it. And I like typing on it, so long as it’s kurt tweets about tech companies and not my novel. My novel takes a while to arrive. I’ve got to do all the other stuff first. Tweets. Email. Group chat. And then, oh, hell, they’re closing up soon.
My feet hurt. I bought the wrong kind of shoes. These are not writers’ shoes. This is not writers’ tea. This is a writers’ watch, because it’s broken. These are writers’ glasses, because I can look at a screen for 12 hours a day and not tire, even if the novel never opens. They’re closing. I should go. I usually just leave. But I feel like I’m on a roll. I finally crack the damn file. Opening. It bounces. There it is. The last place I left the words.
The music stops. One light turns off. It’s a sign. They’re being nice, but I know the next thing will be someone asking me to go. I pack it up. I didn’t actually type a word. But I saw where I was. I saw my last thoughts. And I’ll think about them on the subway on the way home, where obviously I can’t write because