Until I tried again, I didn't know if this would work or not. It's been a while since I sat there and last time, it only made me want to hit the beach.
I cleared away the papers in my little writing corner, set free a bit of open space on my desk, made a cup of tea and sat down beside a window open to the street.
A carpenter was working outside in the sun and I liked the company of his rasping uneven saw and the long silences between it and the grimacing scream of his plane, sounds that seemed to mirror my mood.
In an attempt to get more words onto pages than is happening naturally lately, I tried tempting myself to sit here for an hour. Within five minutes, I was moaning about the chair, telling myself that I would be much happier sitting on a rock or lying in a meadow, that I felt too wild for furniture that didn't give enough knee room and I couldn't possibly work without a bigger view.
I solved all of that by giving myself a cushion to sit upon, opening the window wider to hear the breeze in the trees and floods of birdsong behind that drill, turning sideways to the desk and gazing out at a row of back gardens and the view of enormous purple and white clouds that loomed above the Downs.
I looked at the little figure I keep on my desk of a man with a lovely smile, carrying a heavy gourd on his head, and the dried sunflower from last Summer that is slowly disintegrating into transparent feathery flakes. I opened my pages and began to write.
Two hours later, I noticed the clock.