Another day, another try. Only I'm trying this time first thing in the morning. Before work takes me away. And keeps me away, as it did yesterday.
Experimented some, in a daylong writing exercise, yesterday, but lost against the clock. The following the result.
Dear [March 11th] Diary…Today….
Figured that if I was going to attempt The Diary I might best jot it as it comes to me, rather than think this out or plan, polish, edit the life outta the thing. Keep it real, keep it simple, because it’s the simple tool I’m more likely to use. Perhaps even be silly, as sometimes I wish to be, because if an exercise isn’t fun the monkey’s not going to play with it long. There are days when this monkey’s gonna want all the fun he can find. And this is shaping into such a day.
Home printer’s useless. Adapt. Either draw the map on paper, again, or – better! – leave it a bitmap. Easily changed, added to, that way. Can barely picture this story town in my head. Maybe a maze of streets and shops is better anyway. So he’s a visitor then, and lost. Anything might happen to him.
Before sun-up, minus-five outside and the sky deep blue. Starting this as a word doc, while breakfast tea darkens in my favourite cup with its handle snapped off. Figuring I’ll dongle this away to resume filling thru the day at work. Use this as a notepad. Jot whatever comes.
Sun’s up. Morning news muted. Dreams jotted. The broken bits recalled anyway. Elsewhere. All of it more boring than at all too revealing for public viewing. First writing exercise of the day done. Hardly any windchill out there. Late!
T’s messed up, badly. G’s cross-examining him. The facts, for when head-office finds out. G’s cautioned T over precisely this set of what’ifs, and more than once. G’s holding back. Easy enough if G felt like it, apart from the “You remember I said” et cetera, that G could say mean things, leave T a smaller t. But G’s holding back. Other letters of the alphabet, heads down in meaningful whatever, naturally are listening. G’s thinking of office morale.
Time passes…a lot.
The day gone. Feels busted, this experiment, for today. Prob’ly unrealistic of me to expect to find writing time at my job. Maybe unrealistic is how I should be, tho. Be unrealistic, move into that castle in the air, or stop, surrender the wings, if they’re really there, stay on the ground and be happy about it.
Doesn’t feel spontaneous any longer, this. Alone now, afterhours at work. Protag’s still flying, ooohhh! Shall go play some now and see how the magicians work their craft.