A Practice Entry
16 December, 2001

It's been a lovely day, as only a weekend's summer day can be. Warm, sunny, calm, blue skies and sparkling waters. A day spent reading, and conversing whilst sipping white wine under an apple tree in the afternoon. A day ending with Matthew and Debbie alseep under the lights of the Christmas tree.

I've just finished reading What's Bred In The Bone by Robertson Davies. It's the second novel of his Cornish Trilogy. It's the third time I've read the novel. It's one of the most wonderful books I've ever read. It reminds me and inspires me and entrances me in equal parts.

It makes me want to lock myself away in a room for a week and create something — something for me and of me.

It's weird writing sometimes. I don't know what I'm going to say. Or I might think for ten minutes on a sentence. I think, for most entries, I aim for a tone or a mood. There'll be nights when I need to write, and nights where I force an entry. Mostly it's somewhere in between. Always, though, I'll feel better after writing an entry. Partly unburdening myself, partly because I've been doing this over three years now and it's a habit, and partly because it seems to complete a day.

Entries like this one, short and somewhat forced, are necessary. For me anyway. It's part of keeping in a habit. And to the extent I can write anything good, it's born out of missteps and false turns and re-writings. And practice.

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A Practice Entry
16 December, 2001

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A Practice Entry 16 December, 2001

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A Practice Entry
16 December, 2001