I wonder how much productivity comes from new techniques, and how much comes from merely getting sick of non-productivity and deciding to do something that matters, right now.
They say there are five stages of grief.
The first is when I wait for you to come home even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month, and I save portions for your dinner.
The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used. I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on. I scream at the walls for not warning me.
The third is when I call and say, can we be friends? I cooked your favourite, will you come over for a last supper?
The fourth is when you say no and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour. It’s when I lay in bed and cry over the clothes you left behind.
The fifth is when I pack up all your things and mail them to her address. I paint the walls. I scrub the floors.
We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.
If you were to press your heart close up against somebody else’s heart eventually your hearts will start beating at the same time. And two little babies in an incubator, their hearts will beat at the same time. Love that. So if you have somebody in your life that is prone to anxiety, like myself, and if you happen to be a calm person, you could come up and hug me heart to heart and my heart hopefully would slow to yours. And I just love that idea. Or maybe yours would speed up to mine. But either way, we’ll be there together.
What I find to be very bad advice is the snappy little sentence, ‘Write what you know.’ It is the most tiresome and stupid advice that could possibly be given. If we write simply about what we know we never grow. We don’t develop any facility for languages, or an interest in others, or a desire to travel and explore and face experience head-on. We just coil tighter and tighter into our boring little selves. What one should write about is what interests one.