full heart on an empty stomach
I don't eat while I'm working. Digestion slows me down. It's part of the reason why I've never written anything longer than a short story. The lengthiest thing I ever wrote took me all the hours from dawn to dusk, and I was pretty hungry by the end of it.
Perhaps that's a necessity of creating. Hunger, I mean. It really helps to keep the eye moving, brain buzzing, imagination imagining. If you need a reward at the end of it all, a meal will do nicely.
I find it hard to do anything on a full stomach. Any physical activity, passionate or pleasurable, heavy work or light sleep, is weighed down by food and water. I prefer to give up completely after eating. I know that there's unlikely to be any coming back. I love food, but I try not to confuse it with life.
There's always been a difference for me between living and a reason for living. At my most alive, I think little of living. At my most depressed, I think of little else. It gets easy to eat and sleep, do chores, run errands, surrender to life. When my mind is awake, when my heart is pounding, all menial things fall by the wayside. As if some shapeless muse comes up to enrapture me, I lose sight of all responsibility.
So I don't eat while I'm working, when I'm writing, too soon before expressions of passion. I want all my energy for the feeling I'm feeling, so that my soul won't let my body get in the way. In this way, I justify being.
tumblr | etsy | blurb | facebook 1 - 2
full heart on an empty stomach
I don't eat while I'm working. Digestion slows me down. It's part of the reason why I've never written anything longer than a short story. The lengthiest thing I ever wrote took me all the hours from dawn to dusk, and I was pretty hungry by the end of it.
Perhaps that's a necessity of creating. Hunger, I mean. It really helps to keep the eye moving, brain buzzing, imagination imagining. If you need a reward at the end of it all, a meal will do nicely.
I find it hard to do anything on a full stomach. Any physical activity, passionate or pleasurable, heavy work or light sleep, is weighed down by food and water. I prefer to give up completely after eating. I know that there's unlikely to be any coming back. I love food, but I try not to confuse it with life.
There's always been a difference for me between living and a reason for living. At my most alive, I think little of living. At my most depressed, I think of little else. It gets easy to eat and sleep, do chores, run errands, surrender to life. When my mind is awake, when my heart is pounding, all menial things fall by the wayside. As if some shapeless muse comes up to enrapture me, I lose sight of all responsibility.
So I don't eat while I'm working, when I'm writing, too soon before expressions of passion. I want all my energy for the feeling I'm feeling, so that my soul won't let my body get in the way. In this way, I justify being.
tumblr | etsy | blurb | facebook 1 - 2