Spaced out in front of the TV

Okay, okay.  I am committed to my calling, my literary vocation, really, really, I am. This quote that keeps going around, variously attributed. How to be a writer – put bum on seat, write.  Or, ala Stephen King, ‘I write every day’ and many many other worthy examples of writerly dedication. And yes its what I want, its what I Have to do but the last kid stops jack in the boxing at 8.55pm and the baby wakes up again at 9.02.  So what do you do? You sit there holding him in front of the TV. You veg in front of said TV. You know you haven’t updated your blog recently or started a new story but even when his breathing becomes steady and you could transfer him back to his cot you feel that sweet cuggle-snugness and you know he’s going to be eighteen soon so you just sit there and watch a movie you’ve watched before that’s sort of about being a parent (About a Boy) and has Hugh Grant being all sensitive and responsive in it. It has to be educational, right? Or just….lovely.

But hey, the creative juices are still simmering underneath and so afterwards I turn over and watch a programme about David Hockney painting Yorkshire landscapes. Its part of the BBC Imagine series. It was mesmerizing and fascinating to watch Hockney bring life to a particular landscape over many individual moments or seasons, startling changes of nuance, mood, energy.  His methodologies, his philosophy, his complete immersion in the creative pulse of life and the resulting paintings will resonate with me for a long time and stir up new thoughts and ideas.  So perhaps a sit down in front of the TV isn’t always bad.