Miles Davis's Sketches of Spain seems to go down quite well while writing about Catalan country. I switch my phone to airplane mode and turn off the wifi and data on my iPad. In the back of my mind I remember my undergraduate dissertation and the mountain research that needed distilled into a mere 10,000 words, handed in so late that I was just given a passing grade for it. Then there was my novel, 77,000 words written in fits, starts and then gushing flows, the manuscript still sitting in a box next to my desk. Of course, there are my blogs and whatnot; I've not bothered to count all the words I've posted since January 2005, but I imagine it's some count. Nearly 25,000 tweets over the last 4 years, which when viewed as such could be counted as a tremendous waste of time as well as a tremendous amount of words. Regardless, I to need to write quite a bit more.
My writing partner at the moment is the cat. He sits on the chair next to my desk and sleeps while I type. Not the trumpet from the speakers nor my fingers on the keyboard seem to shake him from his snooze. Just the odd time when I get up to get some water or a cup of tea does he look up and sometimes follow me, hoping that my mission might be in part to feed him. When discovers it isn't, he narrows his eyes disdainfully and returns to his sleepy perch.
I'd forgotten the loneliness of writing somewhat. It isn't there all the time; it's like falling asleep and just waking up. When the words come, it's like dream time and there needn't be anyone else there, not even the cat. But when getting started, or drawing to a close, there's too much awareness of where I am, that I'm the only one here and the only one that can be here. A solitary dropped pin. And the only way to escape that is to enter dream time again, to lose myself in the writing time and time again. Not counting words but writing them, because that's the only way they'll ever add up.
