“Well, the more coffee I drink the more impulsive I become and the more coffee I order,” explained Oscar, “so by late morning I tend to feel connected to the here and now, the ghost of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and a quasar at the edge of the known universe I’ve decided to call Ian.”
“I’ll get the bill,” I said.
I’ve always wanted to start a post with a line that could have fallen from the mouth of Jane Eyre.
And then, of course, in the second week the novelty wears off and the lazy blogger begins to post lacklustre material with decreasing punctuality, losing what few readers he had to the Herald Sun website, where Andrew Bolt can always be trusted to edify.
Fortunately for the reader, I am not that blogger.
I’ve reached an interesting point at the end of my first week of full-time writing. I’ve written much more than I thought, so much in fact that I’ve written myself out into unknown territory.
There’s a common misapprehension about writing that it is a modern form of alchemy. With the exception of the odd long, miserable day when it appears nothing will convert this lead to gold, writing resembles alchemy only as far as its practitioners enjoy making it seem arcane. Writing is less scientific, and tends to work something like this:
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