It was a good suggestion. Take stock, he said, read it back, perhaps make a few changes, not the words but the order of things. It was a good suggestion and I appreciated that fact that he not only read it but thought about it too. We talk about the process of writing a lot. It is the same with all creative things, doing things (he usually allies it to playing sport) that getting oneself up to doing it, to bringing something out of nothing. It is difficult and I’ve done all sorts of delaying things this morning already, like mending one of my bodies, doing my accounts, writing emails, chasing payments and buying some eye cream. I just need to get on with it, especially since my laptop will be away being serviced for several days. I ache with the idea that I cannot write and yet I want to run a mile from it. Such is the human condition, I fear.

Still windy this morning, few people about. The woman with the bag was ahead of me walking towards South Marine. And a man in white tracksuit stepped out of the Prom shelter and strode towards the Bae Guest House. He wore flip flops on his feet. (I forgot to write about the lad I saw carrying his girlfriend’s shoes the other day, they were red platforms. She walked ahead of him in her bare feet towards the bus station.)

I’m waiting. And I long for the escape from it. I dreamt of a famous actor, though when I knew him he wasn’t so. And of airports and being lost and then being found and staying in other people’s houses and thinking we’ll I could just go home. But what or where was home?

Coffee, then write, Ellen. Just do it.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.