The trickling sound of rain against the windowpane celebrates February’s almost end and reminds me I live up North.
Days like these, I don’t like living here. Working at home should be productive today if the colour of the sky wasn’t grey.
I look at my to do list and I want to run, run, run away from it all.
I’ve had a good rest all of last week, so it’s work time.
Today I will gather phrases and words throughout the day:
Send submissions to publishers; send submissions to magazines, I will write figures in words on cheque books to pay the bills, I will respond to those letters that I’ve threatened with all sorts. I will respond to them on the phone too.
I will be distracted by songs of birds and I will need food only after I’ve begun to type. I will watch the kettle boil and burn the toast. When I open door, my toes will go from hot to cold as I walk barefoot to pick letters from the letter box. I will hope that the sunshine will come out later and call my name in a loud voice, so I can ignore it and keep typing. I will make mistakes but I will keep typing. I will ignore the green and red lines that keep underlining words-they do my head in.
There will be no anger spilled across the pages because I’m not working with anyone else but me.
I will be a real writer today, one who works alone in silence listening the rhythm of the keypad on the computer.
I love Thursdays because I can pretend and do my dream job, only this Thursday I am not sure because it’s end of the month -type- Thursday!
I used to hope one day that someone will pay my bills while I spend the day writing or reading not slouched under the duvet or on the couch with a laptop propped against my thighs, It will be in my study room and I will drink tea, and I will type as the sun begins to rise, and i won’t stop until I have reached a predetermined word count. I’m not sure if that day will ever come.
I stare at the new book on my bedside table and wonder if the writer was like me.