We all got and use some kind of time measuring mechanism — watches, cell phones, computers, wall and pocket calendars, you name it. We set our obligations and work habits according to those tools and try to abide by them as strict as possible. No exceptions. Unless you need to be reminded about that now almost trite expression — time is mo…
The problem is, your writing urge, inspiration, and all things connected to it usually doesn’t care much about watchers, calendars or any other time measuring device. It comes and goes, quite often at ungodly hours, with no respect for Christmas New Year’s Eve, kids birthdays…
And what’s worst about it, the moment you get that bug, it becomes like love, you know, like in that Roxy Music song “Love Is The Drug” (you might prefer any of its versions, like that of Grace Jones, for example). You just have to do it — at any moment it rushes to you, whether you’re eating, in the shower, you name it (or not). You just have to sit down (or stand up, whatever) and do it, even just to jot down the idea on the bill you have yet to pay.
What’s worse, if you don’t get to it at that very moment, you feel that emptiness that makes you almost tremble, like the lousy actors in those Fifties (we still don’t specify the century for that decade) anti-drug documentaries. Basically, you’re hooked, and it is no more a question if you want to write or not. You have to.
You also realize that you can practically draw inspiration out of anything -people sitting across your table in a cafe, who at some point might start wondering why you have your gaze fixed on them (like an addict?). Anything, like a nagging Roxy Music song that comes back to you after you hear its first refrain and starts pushing you to somehow write everything down. Again and again.
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