She called it nesting, which I guess makes some kind of sense. Making room. Reclaiming spaces. Remove distraction. Creating comfort and making a house a home. A place to create.
My usual after work routine runs something along the lines of; return home, change from my work clothes into comfortable, feed Toby and then perhaps myself, and then take my place on my couch, working on my nice-little-arse-groove while I soak in shit TV and potter on the internet for several hours, before then retiring to bed. And if you're lucky, somewhere in there is perhaps a journal update. Or an e-mail to a friend. Usually though, there's little more than a snide comment here or there, and far too much time wasted watching clips from The Daily Show and The Colbert Report
This is not just about breaking habits. It's about creating new ones.
Right now I am writing this not from the couch, but in my study. The same study I also refer to as the dumping room. Imagine the second drawer down in your kitchen was turned into a room, and you'd be coming close to what my 'second bedroom' has become. And I'm sitting at my desk - the same desk I've had since around age eight. Purchased from a furniture store In Bunbury, which now no longer exists, it's been with me through all of primary school, all of high school - where it's chief function was more the storage of pornography, as opposed to an aid to study - and then made the move with me to Perth and survived four years of university and five house moves since.
My house is tidy, or at least tidy enough to not be a distraction. The dumping room has become a liveable workspace. And, for the first time in months I can actually see the top of my desk. The dishes are mostly done and I'm on top of the washing. Everything at least has the illusion of clean. Although I can imagine come twelve-oh-one tomorrow night I'll probably have the urge to vacuum every single room in my house.
My cupboard is filled with easy-to-prepare meals, so making a substantial meal should not be too much of a chore. Which sounds like I'm suggesting my cupboard isn't usually filled with easy-to-prepare meals. It is. So - more accurately - there is food in my cupboard that probably won't kill me, and it should last me a while, which is as much of a win as I need right now. Tomorrow on the way home from work I'll be stopping by the shops for one last supply run; the list mostly consisting of coffee, caffeine based soft-drink, chocolate and vodka. I've also considered - albeit very briefly - the idea of taking up smoking, just for the month of November, to add to the authenticity of what has now become my writing room. All I'd need then is a seedy red neon flashing sign placed right outside my window, and the illusion would be complete.
Truth is, you're either going to hear nothing at all, or a shitload more from me come November first. Expect the occasional bout of emo-esque I can't do this, cause it'll come. I have no delusion of reaching fifty-thousand words. To aim at just under two-thousand a night is a big call for me, and some nights I'm just not going to have it in me. So, if I get to half way, I'm calling a win. Fuck, if I get past a week without packing it in, I'm calling that a pretty major victory. Motivation and I have never been friends. I know this, and for a while I was becoming almost Ok with it. Which is not cool. So, the fact that I'm trying, that I'm making an attempt, is a pretty damn good start. And if at the end of the month, there is something I feel is worth sharing with people, that'll be a bonus. If not, well, then there's always next year.
My usual after work routine runs something along the lines of; return home, change from my work clothes into comfortable, feed Toby and then perhaps myself, and then take my place on my couch, working on my nice-little-arse-groove while I soak in shit TV and potter on the internet for several hours, before then retiring to bed. And if you're lucky, somewhere in there is perhaps a journal update. Or an e-mail to a friend. Usually though, there's little more than a snide comment here or there, and far too much time wasted watching clips from The Daily Show and The Colbert Report
This is not just about breaking habits. It's about creating new ones.
Right now I am writing this not from the couch, but in my study. The same study I also refer to as the dumping room. Imagine the second drawer down in your kitchen was turned into a room, and you'd be coming close to what my 'second bedroom' has become. And I'm sitting at my desk - the same desk I've had since around age eight. Purchased from a furniture store In Bunbury, which now no longer exists, it's been with me through all of primary school, all of high school - where it's chief function was more the storage of pornography, as opposed to an aid to study - and then made the move with me to Perth and survived four years of university and five house moves since.
My house is tidy, or at least tidy enough to not be a distraction. The dumping room has become a liveable workspace. And, for the first time in months I can actually see the top of my desk. The dishes are mostly done and I'm on top of the washing. Everything at least has the illusion of clean. Although I can imagine come twelve-oh-one tomorrow night I'll probably have the urge to vacuum every single room in my house.
My cupboard is filled with easy-to-prepare meals, so making a substantial meal should not be too much of a chore. Which sounds like I'm suggesting my cupboard isn't usually filled with easy-to-prepare meals. It is. So - more accurately - there is food in my cupboard that probably won't kill me, and it should last me a while, which is as much of a win as I need right now. Tomorrow on the way home from work I'll be stopping by the shops for one last supply run; the list mostly consisting of coffee, caffeine based soft-drink, chocolate and vodka. I've also considered - albeit very briefly - the idea of taking up smoking, just for the month of November, to add to the authenticity of what has now become my writing room. All I'd need then is a seedy red neon flashing sign placed right outside my window, and the illusion would be complete.
Truth is, you're either going to hear nothing at all, or a shitload more from me come November first. Expect the occasional bout of emo-esque I can't do this, cause it'll come. I have no delusion of reaching fifty-thousand words. To aim at just under two-thousand a night is a big call for me, and some nights I'm just not going to have it in me. So, if I get to half way, I'm calling a win. Fuck, if I get past a week without packing it in, I'm calling that a pretty major victory. Motivation and I have never been friends. I know this, and for a while I was becoming almost Ok with it. Which is not cool. So, the fact that I'm trying, that I'm making an attempt, is a pretty damn good start. And if at the end of the month, there is something I feel is worth sharing with people, that'll be a bonus. If not, well, then there's always next year.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
I'll try to be brief as time is of the essence.
Your spot as Ouroboros is assured until I start really getting moving on it. I'd love for you to do it, and I think you'd be perfect but the only real hurdle in my mind was the logistics thing. Perth. Sydney. Rehearsals. Shooting. Y'know, the usual.
Pissing in my pocket is all good, your urine is sweetest of all.
Matias and I had a little chat with the production house on Monday (during lunch at this music video shoot) and their interest was peaked so I think it will get read now. I've just got to get a synopsis and that sort of bullshit out to the guy which I plan to do before lock down commences.
I'm going to be typing too and I'll probably end up with smaller complete stories rather than one large one. But yeah, I'm following your lead all the way: the plan is to just write.
Will be in touch, you do the same.
Blake.