a page from Borges' notebook
Since 12/27 I've maintained a morning routine that's filled 51 standard-ruled spiral-bound pages with, well, writing.
I read a book for unblocking the creative "x" and liked its primary rule:
Do this for 12 weeks (do this for life).
If you do nothing else (in this book, in your creative pursuits, with your god-given talents), do this.
Okay, I thought,
and bought a Staples 3 pack.
I did this first and quickly (aware that I fetishize the tools, I did not go to Sam Flax). I resign myself to $1.99 ball-points, worker-pens.
(In 2008: sometimes the stamps will be plain, the reply too short, the language awkward, the gift generic. Sometimes, I won’t have anything to say.)
Now rich with a sheaf of marked pages I've begun to wonder about what's next. Wither my minutia.
"Don't you write every morning?" asked Able.
(I'd complained about nothing to read at Wednesday's writer's open mike.)
"Yes but it’s ramblings . What’s VALUE, how do I cut this in favor of that??"
"Aren't there people who do that for you?" Able suggests.
Can we say: It's not enough to create if the world doesn't see?
(So many notebooks, emails saved and hard-drives filled.)
In this fatted, unsentimental age, who publishes the ancestral love letters?
C (who'd like to leave traces too, and have a chance to stand on deck)