It is now two days since I decided to largely retreat to my book-lined study.
My intention was simple: to force myself into calm; to find a level of purpose and concentration that would allow me to think and, above all, to write. I wanted to establish a new habit of creativity. And in order to help me achieve that, I promised myself I would update this online journal everyday until the end of the month.
So far, I have spent my time variously reading, thinking and staring out of the window, although not necessarily in that order.
In the last forty-eight hours the weather has turned from a reluctant sunshine to dank and rainy English summer conditions. Today, a persistent drizzle bothers the rooftops across the courtyard. The grey clouds overhead seem to have made themselves at home, as though having made the effort to arrive here they are now reluctant to leave, and consider this place as good as any other to dump their burdensome load.
A springer spaniel barks a regular intervals, a living clock that has taken over time-telling duties from the stopped watches collected in my drawer. I can hear the sound of bins being dragged across potted paving slabs. Yesterday, a horse and carriage made its way, unseen by me, along the main road, its shod feet clattering on the surface as it went.
No artist’s room is ever disconnected from the world around him or her. Life still intrudes. Even Proust was beset by thousands of letters and social callers after he withdrew from the Parisian social whirl. In my study, too, the lines of communication remain open.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I intend to pick up my pen or, what amounts to the same thing, dust off the keyboard, and begin writing.