Under construction

It is 20 minutes to Valentine's Day and I refuse to admit that I am dateless. Who wants to hear about someone going wah-wah about not finding a date. Surely there's nothing wrong with me? But my one hope of a new friendship has petered out into the ether with ne'er an email. Not even a text. The best way to break up with someone, in a world of communicating devices such as cordless phones, mobile phones, voice mail, fax machines, skype, email, msn, yahoo chat, daily coffee is...well...not to communicate.

I read a piece today on the NY Times titled somewhere along the lines "Why writers write?" It suggests that people tend to think that writers write in order to relate to people, to expunge inner emotional turmoil, to get closure and so on. But the columnist hit the nail right on the head when he said writers write for the sake of writing. I keep writing not so I can feel better. How can I feel better from the mere tip-tapping of my laptop. Much better to actually be in front of the person and just let it all out.

Instead I write because I'm addicted to it. As the columnist said, it's the sentence construction. It's the how, not the why. It's the when, not the what. As for me, I write because ... because seeing my thoughts float on screen is like a sculptor gazing at his sculpture. It is art. My art. But unlike many artists who don't care much for approval and show their wares around, most times I just want to keep my writing under my belt, so I can look at it without unwelcome criticism. Like that scene in The Pursuit of Happyness, I am trying to protect my dream.

I am still so bloody lazy when it comes to my writing. Sometimes it's great, sometimes it's really bad. My aim is to be consistent.

I did, however, manage to churn out a 3,300 word copy on a feature I'm writing on property. It's like I was in the zone. I knew what I wanted to write, I spoke to people, I gathered my research, I printed them out, I took notes, had all my headlines sorted out and before I knew it, I was writing like a mad woman for three hours. I can hear my fingers bash against my keyboard and I didn't care. This is my court and I'm running with the ball I had. It's called focus. When I focus, this ball of energy inside me works like a pipe, feeding me words, turn of phrases, elephant memory on quotes, passing from my stubby pudgy fingers to the screen. It's Times New Roman. Size 14. Start text here.

I don't know how long I talk on the phone. I don't know how people see me. I spoke to a PR person who told me a guy, who is in a fairly senior position, has resigned. He's got muscular dystrophy. He surely has more than $15 million in the bank. It is a cruel joke that a person should have all that money and not the strength to spend it. But I don't want to be hasty in judging how a person's life has turned out. He was in a company he loved for 22 years. It's about time he turn in the towel, or whatever the phrase is supposed to be.

I was in the Zone. Words were coming out of my ears. Tomorrow is a new day. I do hope I make my deadline this time.

As for love, well, love has eluded me again. It may not happen this year. I don't know. But I am still hopeful. Surely it will happen? I can't think of it not happening though there is enough to occupy me in this lifetime.