“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
— Ernest Hemingway
There is a price to be paid for high productivity. The storm passes, the energy – seemingly boundless to begin with – recedes. Ideas continue to haunt, crashing through the plates of one’s skull and demanding to be allowed space on the paper. But fingers have turned sluggish. They wave away all hurried calls for more. Not now. Now is not the time. They are still caught in the half-dream of the morning, in the worlds that had gifted them stories without asking for anything in return. They long for the feel of freshly mowed grass, for the warmth of a steaming bun. They long for a break from the abstract and a return to the pleasures of life, as humble in their everydayness as they might be.
Today we shall have the world at our fingertips and live life so that we might glean something worth writing about.