It’s my first interrupted morning of work in a while. When there are countless other things to do, I long for such days, yet, when one comes I am a little daunted. There are no excuses, its just me and the work. I think about my writing as I walk. My fear of doing it badly, consumes me at times. But what is bad writing? I just need to write it, this constant judgement, of taking its temperature is not only debilitating for me but detrimental to the making of it. I just need to get the words down. It is that simple. All the tweaking is to be done later. I did still write yesterday, as I have done everyday for the last few weeks, even if I was interrupted and could only write in bouts. I did it. That’s the important thing – to, as Julia Cameron, says, ‘show up at the page’. And new, unexpected things are revealing themselves, as they will if I stay with it. I was listening to a radio documentary this morning about an Act-o-thon, a fifty-hour non-stop improvised performance. About three-quarters of the way through, when the actors are beyond exhausted, something that they called the ‘lizard-brain’ starts kicking in. Apparently things just come out that you have no knowledge of, or control over. I think I need to access this. Somehow.

We sat on a bench opposite the library in the sun waiting for my next appointment. Somehow threw some bread out of an upper floor window onto the patch of grass behind us. Four seagulls immediately swooped down. One bird got hold of the largest piece and swallowed it whole. Then it had to regurgitate it as it had got stuck in its gullet. Back it went, down its throat, the other birds crowding round, trying to snatch it. And there it stayed, a great lump sticking out of his neck. All the while he talked about an article he’d read in the local newspaper about people he’d known as a child. I love the hum of his voice, his pleasure in small things.

A few spots of rain then calm. I’ll work soon, but coffee first.