Journal Du Jour
23rd/24th March 2021
I expected the big thaw. I got the big freeze. Quick nap turned into long slumber. Heater on full blast. Three layers separate skin from the ice-age.
Read three chapters of a brilliant nonfiction spy book. Gets my brain firing with all manner of ideas. #Content coming soon.
New teabags today. Lyon’s finest. Tastes like actual tea. Unlike the burnt water swill I had been drinking. Delighted. Still groggy from nap/slumber. Banana, peanut butter, toast, work laptop. Time to earn a wage.
Precious hours lost amidst conference calls and excel sheets. Step out for some air. Crisp. Cold. Nothing like spring.
Bang out a quick article on the most recent film I watched. Togo. Thumbs up. So much to learn from that dog. Anthropomorphism bestows copious amounts of creative liberty. Need to tap into it.
Mind wanders for a few hours. Reign it back in. Browse through genuinely effusive #Medium comments on my stories. Mojo-lifting stuff. Thankful my words make coherent sense to people somewhere. This writing thing is a quest with no end-point. You simply pick up little treasures and hit giant craters along the way. Rewarding and bruising. It’s the yin-yang that makes it so appealing to me, I reckon. Win some, lose lots. Remember the wins, learn from the losses. Net result: continuous development.
Dinner is a fancy chicken curry with chapatis. Toiled over the kitchen counter for hours transforming wheat flour into roundish pancakes. Most of them were geometrical specimen. Fried with a little butter on a roasting pan. Delicious. Calorie counting be damned.
No walk today, courtesy of the cold and the rain. Delighted. Made up by eating the sourest orange on the planet. And some courgettes and beetroot as a side. It’s the diet that counts more anyway? RIGHT???
Still groggy.
Hit the bed with the brilliant book. Sleep in the study tonight. Something about altering routine spaces and time-lines sparking creativity? Plan to read long into the night. Eyes drooping two pages in. It’s not the writer, it’s the reader.
It’s always the bloody reader.
Till be the morrow.
