It starts like this.
It's one of those days that I don't want to write and that I even have reasons not to. I'm genuinely tired and I actually need a break. I feel it's the right thing to stop for a day, step back and just plan things ahead.
All of this makes sense, feels right.
But, as it usually turns out, I'm way behind my initial schedule.
So, I just type and type and type.
But it's not easy. It's a goddamned raging war inside of me. There's a part that just wants to stop. Another so blind that simply just wants to write to keep up with some stupid schedule anyway. And another that couldn't care less and that feels all this is but a pointless exercise anyway.
And, whenever I stop, I simply try to see why I am stopping. And keep on going.
And I do this for a whole day. Which, on friday was twelve hours. From 1pm to 1am.
Doesn't seem like much does it?
But imagine skirting almost every pause, every break. And even when you're having one, you're still thinking about what you have to write, what scene comes next, what is actually going to happen there.
Twelve hours non-stop of sabotaging myself and typing beyond all of that, without wanting to, trying to write something that I won't mind too much revising at some point in the future.
By the time I laid on the floor to sleep my mind was reeling. It didn't want to stop. It was an engine whose chains had broken and it was just rolling with this momentum not likely to stop soon.
Took me a few body focused minutes to actually fall asleep.
But today... oh well... you see today I was KNACKERED. Never mind my head feeling like I'd short-circuited it the previous day: my body felt as if I'd been quietly exercising all day. Nothing hurt terribly - but everything hurt some. All I wanted to do was lie on my back and get back to sleep.
But there was another thing. This kind of eerie certainty that words were just waiting for me to sit down and place the tips of my fingers on the keyboard. Not easy words mind you. But words that were somehow closer to coming out.
That's the thing about days like friday. They're tough to pull through. But, when you do, then it seems your mind is working on a different level. Where the writing is looser. Where it seems that you don't care about what you are writing and yet you see it more clearly and it makes more sense than it usually does. Suddenly you're running downhill somewhat. There are still plenty of obstacles but, on a physical level, there is less effort to put into that. But, at the same time, in terms of awareness, one needs to be more vigilant than ever. It's a tough balance. Tough to reach it, tough to maintain it - well, at least in my case. But it's just that that concentration high has a very distinctive flavour to it. And, when it's seasoned (ie, when it has happened to you enough times for you to be okay when it goes away, without worrying about getting it back) then the writing becomes something closer to what it probably should be most of the time. If not pleasurable, then peaceful and clearer.
And that is so terribly important.
After all, I don't know if you've heard but words are deceiving...
peace.
PS - There's more to be said about The Zone, but I won't say it here and now. Much too tired. It's 3am. I really should be sleeping now...
No comments:
Post a Comment