I can’t avoid David Gray or my journal very long before it becomes obvious that I am avoiding myself. Something about the combination of them always brings me back down to Earth where things are real and I have to deal with them. I can’t even fool myself anymore. I knew what I was doing and every night I would pick up my journal and write something like, “I know. I’m sorry. Tomorrow, I will write!” And it only took me a couple weeks of tomorrows before I was telling the truth.
At the library every day, even after four years, I scout out new places to study and write, thinking, “I’ll come back later on my own time.” I don’t do it often enough, but Saturday I did. I started on the patio outside, and over a series of hours, I moved around to various locations, writing for a while and then moving on. New places and familiar places. One place where exactly a year ago I sat and wrote, “I don’t know what this means,” and this year I wrote, “I know exactly what this means.”
I made up for lost time, listening to David Gray in chronological order (starting from 1993) and writing until my hand hurt. Then I took a break and wrote some more. I got some satisfaction out of writing until I hit a physical limit. The way my hand cramped up was a reminder that I was doing exactly what I should be doing.