Automatic writing exercise.
I'm staring at a blank page. There should be words scattergunned all over this piece of paper right now, seeing as I've been sat here for the last five minutes with this pen in my hand. But no- it is now only, what, fifty percent covered? And does any of it mean anything on this page? No, I didn't think so.
A fellow writer, a man from Scotland, once wrote: “There are days when extracting words from my brain is akin to setting upon a paperclip with a JCB. Or eating soup with a fork.”
But lo- look what I have! Boom! I'm on side two! A bit of pressure can help you produce, erm, anything.
Jesus. I only hope this noteboook was made from a sustainable forest. I'm imagining a lobby of displaced and very literate squirrels stumbling upon my scribblings.
“Well, that's just great, Matt,” the alpha squirrel says. “I get booted out of my tree so my home can be turned into a giant pile of Sainsbury's notebooks, and this is what you use it for? I'm appalled. If you were writing a journalistic, informative piece about the depletion of Britain's woodland, I'd be at least sympathetic. But no. This is just random.”
Well, you have a point, squirrel. There's nothing in this notebook to suggest it is recycled. It's apparently not even made from a sustainable forest. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing on it. I have the remainder of my thoughts to shovel out and dump on this page, like it or not. After all... why not?