I had the idea at the top of the hill as I walked past a
corner-shop.
I had been walking for over 2 hours.
By the time I'd reached the used car sales pitch, on the next
corner, I was definitely mulling it over and re-shaping it. This
meant that I thought the idea was probably worth writing about.
Across the road now and under the railway bridge I'd shaped and
formalised it some more. Opposite the empty park, free from
distractions, I contemplated the ideas relevance and originality
and was really pleased with it.
It had a simplicity that I liked.
Simple style, simple language, no messing.
I resolved to sit down later and draft it.
So.
I can remember where I had the idea.
But for the life of me I can't recall now what the hell it was
all about.
Anwastad Strydoedd *14, 2014.
[ For Michael in Stourport ]
steve coel
In the same week I saw four writers, I vaguely know, at work.
One was writing in a cafe at the local arts centre.
Another in the Co-Op canteen around the corner from where I
currently live.
Both on lap tops.
Writing away.
In public.
Another was in a coffee shop, doodling mostly, and the last,
busily sat scribbling away in the pub.
This public writing seems to be OK for some.
Some biographies I read seem to make this quite clear.
Is it some form of new performing art perhaps?
Of course it could be they've got no where else to write.
I know how that goes.
It could be they pick up on the sounds around them and write
where they need too.
Or even when they have too.
Like the 150 metre / 260 yard episode.
I could have stopped at the bottom of the hill, written my notes
and then been able to take it to the next stage.
I didn't and therefore I can't.
Manifesto for the New Writing.
steve coel
An 11.59 Publication
