Everything. The voices around the table where I had lunch, the old friend I ran into at Hartford. The drive home, the glass of SB at Dukes… it’s people. People, around me.. the characters in the play. Go outside, I tell myself, as a writer. To stay in your own head is to be jailed.
Mom and Dad in Oregon, enjoying Sunriver, me writing there soon. Avowed. Listening to some chilled trip-hop/ambient beats and thinking about the story, the shift, the recent shift within the shift.
Old fired I saw, her daughter like a painting, asking me something and me coming back with a response immediately… she responding and I can’t say how but there was a dialogue tie. Only the current page and story, not knowing what’s next.
Last time I had a day like this I may have been in my 20s, when I was this – not so much free – but like a glider over mountains. No priority, no urgency, creating and writing while not doing either.
One of my favorite RJD2 tracks comes on, obvious reasons. Look at the title. But I’m in no way a ghost. Alive and present and eager to write.