What makes for better writing? Feelings as fresh and raw as a newly severed finger? Thoughts scrawled out as you're thinking them? Memories imprinted on the page as you live them, like a photo onto Polaroid paper? Or that which is left to simmer, to settle? To congeal. Maybe those words we've rolled around on our tongues for months are the best ones. The grit becomes a pearl.
We all know some dishes are better the next day. Takeaway curry, for example, or Mum's lasagne. It's best to leave your tea to cool, lest it burn your mouth.
What is this, then? It is it an attempt to excuse laziness, tardiness, distractedness?
Probably.
But I've had at least enough time to think on things that I could come up with a better excuse for my literary absence than mere writer's block.
So let's just say, I didn't forget. I wasn't too lazy. I just wanted time to reflect. Time to let my thoughts develop, slowly.
Time to let the meat of a story tenderise, slowly.
Time to let it melt off the bone.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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