Like
me, Willy was in love with writing.
Wednesday, April 3,
2013
I am now officially seven days behind in writing posts to The
Peekskill Commuter.
I've taken dozens of notes over these long lost days, but simply
haven't had a moment to spare.
In addition to time, writing requires a tranquil place to
compose.
As I've done for the last week or so, I can take notes on the
fly—typing them on my iPhone’s Notepad during my round-trip commute, dictating
thoughts as voice memos as I walk to work, occasionally opening up my catch-all
Word doc at the office as thoughts fruition—but to properly and aptly congeal
them into a fluid composition I need a little more than a patchwork of moments.
I need a good, solid, chunk of space—physical, chronological,
mental and emotional—one that lets me work out all the intriguing problems of
composition—context, fluidity, transition, structure, comprehension, relevancy,
propulsion, originality and of course, the most wonderful conundrum of all—astute
word choice.
It is this sacred place and space where I clip and cut and
insert and play with my words until I can read and reread and be happy with the
results.
Alas, resolving my linguistic puzzles and problems have had to
defer to greater, more immediate, concerns —clogged shower drains, clogged
toilets, carpeting saturated with years of cat dander and urine, broken
shelves, broken banisters, no place to hang towels, is there heat in the house
?
No, now my worries weigh upon me as a slew of do-it-yourself
home repairs, and new bills and accounts to keep on top of.
Woe should not be me though, for at least I have a home.
And admittedly, prosaic troubles such as this, feed the beast and have given me fodder for a post.
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