Chapter 19, edit of Desert; I'm staring at a blank page and I do it well. My heart beats once to every third blink of the cursor. An episode of Midsomer Murder, quite simply the best detective saga written and then transformed wonderfully into a series, plays on the television. Desiree sleeps nearby. Now and then she lifts her head to check on me. My coffee cup is empty but I've a full pack of cigarettes. Dinner is thawing in the oven.
I click on the blue W icon. Yep, the page is still blank. Yep, the cursor is still blinking. One, two, three; yep, my heart's still beating. The coffee cup has yet to refill itself.
People often tell me I should designate writing hours. Oh my god; to do so would frustrate the tar out of me. My heart would be beating with the cursor. Work has specified hours. Writing is not work. I do not set out to write a certain number of pages or words per day. I wonder at those writers who claim they pound out 5,000 words a day.
If the average book is under 100,000 words and I've been writing at a pace of 5,000 per day yet I'm only completing one to two books a year - how many days begin with deleting the words written the prior day?
I am at peace with the blinking cursor. I see possibilities in the blank page. Apparently however, I will have to refill the coffee cup.