Stopping

I made a rule to write something every day on Sunday. I haven’t done it yet. I have not had the right time or idea or moleskin.

Some people say that you should write every day to keep the momentum going. That the route to creativity and improvement is in persistence. That the writing will emerge from writing. Other people say that you shouldn’t force writing. That the labour is forced and obvious.That when the time is right, the words will come.

I am bored of waiting.

I am also, when I think about it, surprised that I have “nothing” to write about when my days are so jam-packed and my appetite for new things continues to bite.

I miss the pause for retrospection that comes from writing about things. I also miss the solidity it gives those things when memories get hazy and time blurs.

On Sunday, I went to Columbia Road Flower Market for the first time. It was what must have been the hottest day of the year so far and it felt like being on holiday. Behind the deserted Sunday high road, Columbia road was teeming with people and flowers. Crammed between tiny East End cottages, baskets of lavender and roses and orchids filled the narrow street; the market stalls were East End Cockney meets rose basket Oliver. Everywhere you looked, people had armfuls of flowers. It was five minutes from my office and yet I would never have guessed that it was there.

I can see the colours again now. I don’t think I gave them a second thought once I’d walked away. It is easy to replace one experience with another –

until you actually stop.

I guess this is what I’ve been missing.

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