My Writing Ritual (2)
I work at an enormous table. On it are my computer, my desk light and a printer. I even eat and watch television seated at this table. So I must spend at least about twelve hours a day seated at this table, irrespective of whether I write or not. You could say that the table and I are in danger of becoming one being.
My chair is so run down that it now has a permanent imprint of my back and bottom. Moreover, because writing causes me to shuffle my feet relentlessly, I have worn down the carpet to such an extent that I am now attacking the concrete underneath. On occasion, I do worry, that one day my neighbours downstairs will see my feet dangling from their ceiling.
The more I write the more unkempt my surroundings. If everything is pristine, you can be assured that I haven’t written a thing.
‘How can you possibly work in such a mess?’ I get sometimes asked. My stock reply: ‘As long as my thoughts are sorted, which is essential to be able to write, the rest doesn’t really matter.’
The place where I write is my living room and my sanctuary. I get very nervous when I have to entertain visitors. These visitors by the way are always enchanted by the lovely atmosphere, they normally single out: the piano, the books and the paintings.
Punctually at 3 pm I go out to buy the NRC newspaper from my local shop. I never consume any alcoholic drinks before 5 pm but it is true that when I fill the first glass, it signifies the start of my second creative period. If you actually manage to spend producing new writing for four hours a day, you write a tremendous amount.
Most days I do not cook dinner before nine o’clock in the evening, after dinner I do not drink because I need the remaining hours to sort out my writing cap for the following day.
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