So....this morning I woke up after a short and fitful night's sleep to the cold, grim realisation that this schedule was not working. I have written nothing since last Wednesday, and even then it was a piddling, fiddling around with photographs for a book I will finish. No writing. No words that fly and sing, or plunge to the depths. None.
So I lay there and came to the calm, considered realisation that i had run out of time to write. I have been writing for more than ten years now and have a clutch of books to my name. But four years ago I decided to write things that were me - good, pure, unadulterated works of imagination and verve and fire - poetry, prose-poems, an experimental multimedia work - and some history that interested me.
Well, at this precise moment, I have finished my morning rota of duties, and have eaten and am on my second mug of coffee. This fuel has given me the energy to allow myself a last day to write - I will go to church to pray and meditate - then see what unfolds today. I will not force it - poetry is my marker - will any words rise out of me? Or will that blank emptiness that has been my writing continue?
Well, enough for now.