the Passion

No, not Mel Gibson's. Winterson's. Or perhaps Napolean's.

I remember reading this a few years ago, and then not finishing it, but as I read it now, nothing seems familiar. And yet, Oranges felt like deja vu. I guess it's just like Tony says, we read too fast and we write too fast. We do everything a little fast, and I'm finding this a useful thing to know, because as I slow it down, as I really begin to read sentence for sentence, there is meaning where I would have missed it before.

Writing is hard. I should remember that. It takes practice and I've run out, that's why I'm doing this. Each day a page. Not for you, but for it to start flowing again. Sometimes I really don't think I can even squeeze out a word, let alone a nice comprehensible rant, but it helps to keep it going. All language, all fitness, is like this. Let it go and it becomes stiff. Rusty. I can literally feel the grammar slipping through my fingers as I struggle to read and reread what seems to be a change of tense and yet sounds right.

I'm writing a story called Luke Warm. But I might change the title because it gives too much away. It's nice to write, scratch on paper, and it's new, and it feels good to stop walking in the middle of the city because a sentence comes to you better than it did the night before and you just have to write it down before you forget it again, before it slips away like love. I think I have the plot figured out, but it may change. Even the theme may change. The theme is, what's good for me isn't necessarily good for you. It seems obvious, but like so many other blatantly obvious things in life, people forget. And it's not really even to remind other people not to forget that I want to write it, it's more... it's more like, wow, it works so well in this story, in this particular circumstance.

My lecturers keep giving me extensions for assignments I have already completed and handed in....