Did spring ever wear so many fabulous frocks as she does when she comes out on the island?
I've been writing letters half the day--letters for work, a letter to the beau, a letter to an ex-student-- and I begin to wonder whether all the energy I put into professional and personal communications could go into some other sort of writing. If so, am I slowly bleeding myself? But how did those writers of old keep up with their many correspondents? Rilke wrote letters to a young poet. Dylan Thomas wrote letters to everyone, especially if they were at all likely to a) worship him or b) fuck him.
If I thought someone was likely to want to a) worship me or b) fuck me, would that be inspirational? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I would still rather wander through Ross Bay Cemetery with headphones in than buckle down. But I digress.
The great writers always wrote letters. But they also just . . . .wrote. (Yes, yes, they didn't have FB or GMail chat or whatever, but you digress.)
Will my writing life be different once the beau moves back to Canada? I know, for instance, that I have neglected this journal most shockingly. I am sure someone remembers the days when I used to wax wordy about all manner of things (too many, I admit, trivial). What happened to the film contemplations? What happened to the bit about Psycho that I was going to develop into a full-fledged piece?
But work is crazy and not conducive to inspiration. I need a holiday. Then I'll write more. Sure I will.