When I sit on the bus or the tram [not often in the taxis; Dublin taximen are notoriously chatty], I am often writing posts, in my head, telling myself the story of the thing I’m going to write.
Right now? Not so much. I’m writing an awful lot, work wise, which is great, but it’s the sort of writing that’s the problem: theatre reviews, which require the part where I’m actually in the theatre, which is mostly at night, after I’ve put in a day’s work, or a day’s revision.
Ah, the exam. I sit at my dining room table — this is a holdover from my childhood. I did all my homework at the dining room table, which may explain my ability to sit in a busy places, in the heart of a café or a coffee shop, and write [I wrote the first draft of each of the chapters of my masters thesis at the late, great Bewley’s Café on Westmoreland Street.] Or, it was a tendency that was going to come out anyway, and came out early. So I sit at my ‘dining room’ table [not a proper room with a table in it at all, just an area in my open plan flat] and grind through the chapters of the texts of my course, and wonder at how much easier my life would be right now if I had done this work throughout the year. I shake my head at myself, right now. I shake my head because I know I’m guessing the questions properly — I always do, always — and that I’ll get a better mark than I deserve, considering.
And I haven’t been blogging, which makes me sad. I like it here, and fear, perhaps, that if I don’t write about it, the horseriding will become work-a-day, mundane, just a thing I do in between, oh, writing novels, having crushes, and booking airline tickets.
I woke up this morning, with just the correct degree of anxiety which means I’m ready to write my review, due, I think, today, maybe Monday, just as well get it done. I check the schedule and — oh, joy! — I’m not writing this review for the main paper, but for the magazine for which I am the arts correspondent.
So here I am, and maybe now I can put out those flames.