Today is a writing day, my second this week but it’s gone 11.00 am and so far beyond some rambling scribbles in my journal, there is nothing written. However, my brain is whirring and I can feel ideas lining up. Characters sit in the waiting room, patiently waiting to be written. One is particularly keen to have her moment and she may well be the main focus of the day – when I get going.
Yesterday at the poetry cafe we touched on procrastination and the workings of the unconscious. The value of procrastination is subject to debate. I think of it as periods of composting, when ideas break down and become rich, fertile soil for growing new work. However, too much of it and you really are just staring out of the window at nothing.