I came here intending to write. I believed that simply being here would be enough; that the floodgates would open, words tumbling like water and all I would need was my laptop with its ability to save.
I drove on the back roads making my way straight across the flat and, like a mariner, hopeful for the first sighting of land, I stared through the dusty windshield.
I switched on the radio, the music instantly, tediously, recognisable and I began to reel off the titles of the songs and the names of the artists. My disappointment quickly turned to despair and I began to rail angrily at the radio as I drove, desperately retuning again and again in a vain search for a healthy burst of cynicism.
I lost count of the days and the distance covered between motels gradually lessened. When I retreated into a room I pulled the curtains – a ritual that had begun in an effort to create a space for myself, a corner where I could write.
I had stopped carrying the laptop from the car and it languished, abandoned, on the backseat but not forgotten. I still intended to begin if only to clear my head, to sift through the cliché ridden results for a possible glimmer. But instead, I settled again and again with a six-pack and when it was drunk I lay across another motel bed. Not until the maid using her passkey entered the room and, apologising, backed out again would I rise.
When I do begin it is without thought, I begin to process, pushing a pen, forcing a groove into my finger which deepens and becomes livid and won’t harden, not until I have filled my notebook. Avoiding my usual illegible scrawl I transcribe from memory in carefully constructed capitals song title and artist, song title and artist, ensuring there is room on each and every page for nothing more.