I want to write more but I don't know what to write. Perhaps thats only partly true. I've got words boiling over in my head, sometimes spilling over to the outside world but often sinking back down into the depths of my mind. I've been reading a lot of books about writing, writing about writing. Ursula K. Le Guin, Zadie Smith, Elvia Wilk; authors offering an inside peak into their ways. As the curtain lifts and I peak in, I feel an affinity with the practice that I don't often get to practice myself.
I thought that I could just start by writing that I want to write more, but perhaps Thursday afternoon isn't the most intellectual time for me. It's a humid day here, torrential rain all morning rising as steam in the afternoon sun. The trees seem happy.
I've been thinking about waves but not spending enough time watching them and instead I sit and fret over small decisions that have been inflated inside my head. These decisions block my ability to sit through more than thirty minutes of focus. I scrunch my eyes up and try to wrestle my attention back to the words on my screen.
Tomorrow I will visit a surfboard shaper in Rotterdam. Not because I want to order a board but just to see and smell a surfboard workshop. Maybe with the intention to shape my own someday, but without the practical realities to achieve such an act.
I've been listening to a lot of Bill Callahan recently. His voice, with its creaking timbers and simple melodies, inspires and soothes me.
I feel like a sensitive professional.