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Almost writing
By Nicholas Laughlin
Published in The
Caribbean Review of Books, November
2006
It is Friday night. I am sitting at my
desk. I am almost writing. My desk is a plain square table three and a
half feet by three and a half feet, painted brown. To my right hand is
a pile of books. To my left hand is a lamp with its hinged neck bent at
an uncomfortable angle. The lamp is not switched on. Behind the lamp is
a red plastic tray piled with papers and notebooks. Directly in front
of me is my PowerBook. Behind the PowerBook is a pencil-holder full of
pencils, pens, rulers, scissors. Next to that is a little wooden
carving of three monkeys. The first monkey covers his ears with his
hands. The second covers his mouth. The third covers his eyes. Next to
the monkeys are four little wooden boxes containing various odds and
ends: staples, beads, ends of twine. Next to the boxes is a glass
paperweight. I am almost writing.
It is eight minutes past nine. My desk faces a window about ten feet
away. The window looks out onto a wall and the far corner of the back
garden. It is dark outside and I can barely make out the silhouettes of
the shrubs at the end of the garden. Dozens of little frogs are singing
outside but unless I think about them I don’t hear them. I am almost
writing.
I am listening to Satie’s Gnossiennes.
I often listen to Satie when I am almost writing. Other kinds of music
distract: make me hum, or rap my fingers on the arm of my chair, or
sing a phrase or two. For some reason Satie does not distract.
I am doodling on a scrap of paper I have just fished out of my
wastepaper basket. I use this basket not to throw bits of paper away
but to store bits of paper that have been doodled upon and may be
wanted for further doodling. So the basket is never emptied. This scrap
of paper already has a doodle on one side: an imaginary map. I am
doodling on the other side: another imaginary map. I usually doodle
maps, especially when I am almost writing. Coastline, rivers, cities,
provinces. There may be a war: something may be conquered, a boundary
may change. There may be a treaty. Someone may found an empire. For ten
minutes I ponder the affairs of these imaginary countries: whole
populations wait unbreathing while I decide their fate. A line of blue
ink divides a nation. I fold the piece of paper and tuck it carefully
into the overflowing wastepaper basket until it is wanted again. I am
almost writing.
My study is a small room completely lined with bookcases and the
bookcases are full of books. I look up at the shelves with their lovely
patterns of book spines like multicoloured stripes running round the
room: better than paintings. I read the titles on the spines on a shelf
to the left of my desk. I immediately want to read every book on the
shelf. That one is an old favourite. That one I’ve always meant to read
but haven’t found the time. That one has that passage I marked in the
margin and meant to go back to. That one: yes. I am almost writing, and
that one, that one has been written, and perhaps if I read a few pages
chosen at random I will understand how it was written, and then I will
write. I get up from my desk, take the book from the shelf, let it fall
open in my hands, read the first sentence. So this is what a sentence
looks and sounds like: this is how one writes. One uses certain words,
mentions certain names. Yes, I understand. I am almost writing. I get
up from my desk again and put the book back on the shelf. Yes, I am
almost writing. I open a new Word file. A beautiful field of white
pixels: untouched: ready. I see myself as a character in a very
intellectual movie, perhaps French. I am sitting at my desk. I am very
good-looking, because I am writing. Or almost writing. I am gazing
intently at the PowerBook screen and the air around me is incredibly
pure and clear, because I am brilliant, almost glowing with genius, and
I am doing the most important thing in the world: I am almost writing.
It is terribly poignant: what a movie, no wonder it’s French. No: but I
am not French. I am almost writing.
No, no, I am tapping my foot on the floor: Satie is distracting me.
I am almost writing.
It is thirty-five minutes past nine. I have not had dinner. Since I sat
at my desk two hours ago I have been almost writing. I have read
several emails and an article about a photography exhibition; I have
drunk a glass of red wine; I have doodled a map. I have imagined myself
in a French movie about a writer: it is likely that a government may
fall or a revolution may break out because of what that writer is
writing. It is a terrible responsibility, a terrible burden, but that
writer in the French movie keeps writing. But the movie flickers on and
off: the image will not stay still. The frogs are singing. The monkeys
have their hands clapped over their ears, their mouths, their eyes. The
lovely colours of the book spines — oranges, greys, blues — ripple
round the room. I am almost writing. It is Friday night. I am sitting
at my desk. I am almost glowing with genius — I am not yet — I am very
good-looking — I will not get up from my desk again — I will not slump
down in my chair —
I am not writing yet.