It was a strange year concerning my writing. I had taken on so many different work options; ideas for shows, for projects, which consumed my time more than I thought.
Writing seemed always an indulgence of my own free, silly, wandering thoughts and not geared towards anything productive; time was too precious to waste it. Those forty bags need to be finished; the dolls need to be stuffed; the Gingerbread delivered . . . there was always something.
My writing took on more the form of dreaming . . . which in some loose, unplanned moment overcame me and then I had to get it to paper, what ever it was that wanted out.
Sometimes that happened at three in the morning or while waiting at the airport, but never in my working time.
That really tells me a lot when I look at it.
So bit by bit I stapled my pages together or shall I say, stapled them out, with a whack and a force which had nothing to do with bags and deadlines, only with the vehemence of the undenied voice.
Whack and another one while I was not looking.
Although there would have been a lot more staples in my stapler, I have obviously held my hand too tightly over my needle and thread, to allow for more spontaneous stapling.
Silent was my stapler most of the time – unused.