Obviously, you don’t need to be sorry

Six months. I looked it up. The last text before this early beginning of a text is from late January. Nothing in-between. I wrote. Just not here. Just not in the morning. I wrote at work. Emails and notes. I worked on a lengthy book chapter. Which I now have to shorten. That’s what the editor said. And also ten scripts. Scripts to guide my conversations with a colleague, so that people could – maybe – listen to the recordings without falling asleep or just clicking on something else at 73 seconds in.

That all is writing. I am sure. But not really writing practice. Not practicing. Focusing on the product and not the process. That does not give you any practice. This here is different. Just writing. I will save the half-baked product. I usually do. Keep it. But not for later. It just there. On the computer. It’s done. I practiced. I have a record of it. That’s it. Done. Very satisfying. Nothing else to do. Shawasana. Your body breaths itself. Nothing else to do. Your jaw muscles, your neck muscles, your finger muscles are relaxed. Nothing else to do. Your mind minds itself. Relaxed. Relaxing.

Six months. I looked it up. In Scrivener. Where I keep all texts. I had heard that’s what writers do. That’s the tool they use. When I started in my first writing group. There are templates in Scrivener. For novels. For film scripts. For poetry collections. I do none of these. I tried. I tried. … What do they say in the movie: Try not. Do or do not. There is no try. I just do. I practice. Slowly. And not so steadily. I was not steady for six months. Try not. Do or not do. Just doing. Now.

Obviously, you don’t need to be sorry, she said. I am not. I missed many good writing sessions. Opportunities to practice. Writing practice. Just doing. Just texts. That’s what I call the folder in Scrivener: Just texts. And that’s what they are: just texts. I am not sure whether they are just. Just to anyone. Just to anything. That’s for others to say. I can only hope. And practice. Practice writing. Just texts. Slowly. And steadily. Steadily is better. Typing. Slowly. With … how many fingers am I using? When I am mindful of that, am I using fewer or more? It’s three and a thumb. One on the left, two on the right, and the right thumb. Or is the thumb a finger? It is one of the five fingers on one hand, but it’s not called a finger. So, what is it? I have no idea, and this is getting too philosophical, and I am just practicing. Practicing writing. It feels good to do it. Do.

It's been a while that I posted; I have been posting regularly on PantaRhei. Mainly on GenAI and language education. It's been a while that I went to my writing group's weekly sessions. I went the other day. The prompt was – you guessed it – Obviously, you don't need to be sorry.

… wander off to left field

I am not good with these sports metaphors. And they get kicked back, bounced off, and swung around. Everywhere. Seven o’clock in the morning, I got hit by a writing prompt. Wander off to left field. I am not sure what sports this is. With a field. So I am wondering. I can never hear whether someone said wondering or wandering. He was wandering wondering. He was wandering down the mountain path, wondering why he went up in the first place. But fields and wandering … Mostly people talk about baseball, football, basketball. Does it have to have balls? In it. Which of these has a field? It has to have a field, so they can wander off. Let’s try this by elimination. Basketball doesn’t, there are no baskets on the field. Not anymore. Just tractors. And they don’t go left field. They go in circles. Corn circles. Now, that’s not the point. Must be one of the two others. Again. For one they use an egg, for the other they have bats. That I know. I just know it. I don’t understand it. With the bat, I have seen more people stand behind a door or go neighbor hunting, than I have seen them on a field. Maybe, they should be on the field more often, then less people get hurt. With the egg … I don’t know. So I won’t comment. They can kick or throw the egg during the short times when they are not on break, I think. I guess you can’t make these guys work any harder. Kick the egg once. Rest for 23 minutes. Oh, here is the egg in a position where you like it … The coach calls and does not even ask whether you are rested sufficiently after a mere 23 minutes! I don’t know. Does egg kicker go back on the field? Or do the batters thrush the ball across the field? Both or none? Any others? There is field hockey, but no-one ever talks about it. Maybe no metaphors in common parlance? I like winter sports. They have mountains. Up and down. Mostly down. Downhill. But no fields. And here they hardly show this on TV. Especially not in winter, I find. So, no fields. No TV. No metaphors. No nothing. No wandering off. Not in these sports. But I wandered off to left field.

This was some writing practice late last year. I had fun …

I’ll make some calls

*Microsoft Copilot. (2024). Old-fashioned telephone on a prestigious writing desk in an administrative office [Generated image].*

I’ll make some calls, he said and waved his hand at me. Or did I make up the last part? Was he waving? In any case, I got it. After – it can have only been – 45 seconds, he asked Me to leave. Do people still say that: I’ll make some calls … He didn’t even have a phone on his desk anymore. All Zoom these days. Was he old enough to remember that offices used to have a phone line? And a fax machine? I didn’t even have time to look around his office. Did he have a fax machine still? Did he have his own printer? If the person was important enough, he used to have a fax machine and a printer and later a three-in-one. Or was that two? I’ll make some calls!?! Had he been more important, the fax and phone would be in the front office. And he would only call them to tell them who they must call to then call him so that he could call them. To call to call, to call to call, to call.

I walked out of his office. The chair in the corridor was no doubt still warm from my waiting. I calculated the rate of waiting time to talking time in my head. I was good at math. Better than the corrupt election machines. One to twenty. I had waited fifteen minutes to talk for less than a minute. What a waste of my taxes. Why did I come here? I’ll make some calls. Oh ya, sure. Make your bloody calls! Did I say this out loud? Was this suit, who just walked by, looking at me? Are you looking at me? I’ll make some calls. I. Will. Make. Some. Calls. My battle cry echoed in the long corridor. I will call. I took out my cell and waved it like a torch. I will make some calls. Does anyone have the number of the boss of this shit hole here? Oh come on, give me the number of your retarded boss. I will call him. Right now. Stop staring at me. Look somewhere else. Don’t you have any work to do? Ach, waste of time. I will make some calls … and start with the President. I will call him. He will pick up. He is like me, he likes to talk. He likes his burgers. And diet coke. So American. I will make some calls. Oh no, I will only call one man. The man. He will make it right again. He will make one call to this jerk. Lock him up. And there will be peace. And respect. And then this Crooked Office John can’t make any calls anymore and can’t have anyone in his office for 45 seconds. For the next 45 years. Enough already …

I have not been posting texts for far too long, I think and hope you agree, but I have been writing. This is from a session this week and the prompt was – you guessed it – I’ll make some calls.