write 50 words. that’s a paragraph.
write 400 words. that’s a page.
write 300 pages. that’s a manuscript.
write everyday. that’s a habit.
edit and rewrite. that’s how you get better.
spread your writing for people to comment. that’s called feedback.
don’t worry about rejection or publication. that’s a writer.
when not writing, read. read from writers better than you. read and perceive.
summer is slowly downshifting into autumn in this part of the world. slowly. the heat and humidity are still predominant, but in the evenings, there’s the feeling. you know the one. the expectation of a new season. the breeze is different, lighter. I expect the air will change soon and I await that moment eagerly. I am becoming increasingly annoyed as I re-read everything I’d written in the past weeks and notice the words, which I overuse. perhaps, however, only, but, pretty, as in, pretty much. I over-think things and I overuse words. too much of everything is simply too much. I spent two hours selecting words, placing them one in front of another, slowly like baby-steps; rewriting, editing, deleting and then again. two hours and just as I pressed send, a feeling of horror came onto me. what have I done? but it was too late and the words were out there. for the rest of the afternoon I tried to picture him, sitting somewhere, halfway around the world. reading the sentences before him. but no image appeared in my mind. just a smudge of a face that was once familiar, but still so close to me. and the glow of his computer screen. sometimes I feel as if my inclination to write as opposed to talk face to face is more of a curse than a blessing.
simplicity; I search for simplicity in everything. pressed plain white shirts, trousers of color and a pair of canvas TOMS. I’ve stopped wearing any traces of make-up a long time ago. no particular brands of shampoo or conditioner, just to get on with it as quickly as possible. a silver band on my left fourth finger; it’s a habit now, to wear it, rather than a symbol of unrealistic promises. my hand feels empty without it, marked by a faint tan line. it’s incredible that it’s possible to buy a sense of security for ten dollars. because that’s what it is really. I had to search the dictionary for the definition of monogamy and faithful, only to find out that my version has a much greater margin of error. physical betrayal hurts less than an emotional one. and there’s absolutely nothing victorious about me winning that prize. the heartbreaker, not the heartbreakee.
I dream of a different city. I dream of living in a spacious industrial loft with high ceilings and light coming through large windows. I dream of endless walls covered in books and records. a big map of the world on one side with all my movements across the planet carefully marked down. red brick walls and wooden chevron on the floor. an old stovetop and a vintage refrigerator. one of those from mad men, the way they used to make them in bright colors. turquoise green or sunflower yellow. I like to imagine and think about these things. it makes me feel better. it makes me think I know what I want. smooth, direct, clear, but subtle all at the same time. yes, that’s him. and that’s what I want.