WRITE OR WRONG

 

 

WRITE OR WRONG

Where-o-where does the old boy go to pen his epic pieces of literature? Maybe, pick a place with total quiet, isolation and solitude with absolutely no distractions. Desirable? Doubtful, but let me muse.

A monastery comes to mind – a bare-walled cell, painted in muted grey with a palate and straw mattress on the floor, an unsanded pine-wood desk and chair and one tiny window, admitting a tiny shaft of light for only a few precious moments during the day.

My “attire” would appropriately be a robe of sack cloth and ashes with a cowl to complete the ensemble. My feet would be shod with two pieces of old trunk tire, held on by rough sisal twine.

After a breakfast of loose, flavorless gruel and a glass of room-temperature water, I could spend the rest of daylight hours at my desk, grab my duck-quill pen and come up with some of the finest writing since Hemingway.

Thank goodness, this monastery horror-show left my mind as soon as I wrote it down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, writing is best accomplished, dressed in shorts, a t-shirt and Nu-Balance sneakers. There is no desk, but a clipboard is an excellent substitute and a ball-point pen beats any goose-quill. I lounge on my lanai with ear-phones playing classical music. – not quite akin to a monastic life-style, but enough to help me jot down some words in a recognizable manner.

My environment is not very romantic or exciting, but it is functional. I’ll stick here at the “Preserve”, eschewing the sackcloth and ashes and simply muddling through……..

By the way, oatmeal with sugar and cream has been substituted for the watery gruel.