“Not infrequently a marching soldier might be seen to halt, take his writing utensils from his belt, and compose an ode—and such papers were found afterward in the helmets or the breast-plates, when these were removed from their lifeless wearers.”

– Inazo Nitobe, Bushido

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“Some youthful enthusiasts of karate believe that it can be learned only from instructors in a dõjõ, but such men are mere technicians, not true karateka. There is a Buddhist saying that “any place can be a dõjõ.””

– Gichin Funakoshi, Karate-Dō: My Way of Life

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There’s never a wrong time to write.

There is never a wrong place to stop and think.

I can write where I stand (or slump on the sofa).

It’s all practice.

Sometimes the best stuff gets made when we are on the way to doing something else.

“I hardly know how to write about myself. Any style you pick seems to unpick itself before a paragraph is done. I will just go for it, I think to myself, I’ll hold out my hands and say, c’est moi, get used to it. I’ll trust the reader. This is what I recommend to people who ask me how to get published. Trust your reader, stop spoon-feeding your reader, stop patronising your reader, give your reader credit for being as smart as you at least, and stop being so bloody beguiling: you in the back row, will you turn off that charm! Plain words on plain paper.”

– Hilary Mantel, Giving Up the Ghost

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“We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking.”

– Henry David Thoreau, Walden

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The best way to discover who you are is to write it out.

It’s cheaper than shopping for new outfits every day.

If I write without really thinking about what I will say, it feels… better. Better than straining for the right word or a clever turn of phrase.

I like to write like I am having a chat. We don’t make the other person wait for us to rummage through our bag of tricks when talking in person.

I won’t make you wait.

I’ve almost finished.

I am not hiding behind an abstraction. No theories to hide behind.

Just trying to be myself.

But who is that?

Good question.

I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

“Once photographed, whatever you had “really seen” would never be seen by the eye of memory again. It would forever be cut from the continuum of being, a mere sliver, a slight, translucent paring from the fat life of time; elegiac, onedimensional, immediately assuming the amber quality of nostalgia: an instantaneous memento mori. Photography would seem to preserve our past and make it invulnerable to the distortions of repeated memorial superimpositions, but I think that is a fallacy: photographs supplant and corrupt the past, all the while creating their own memories.”

– Sally Mann, Hold Still

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“When it comes as a memory, it dictates to you, it controls you. After I wrote that story about the breaking glass, I would hear a glass breaking but it never came back that way. I mean, I would remember what happened, but it was never as before.”

– Pacifique Irankunda, quoted in Good Prose by Tracy Kidder & Richard Todd

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I have a poster in my kitchen of the film Cliffhanger. It is dominated by the phrase “Hang On”.

I feel that this poster is philosophical art: what a wonderful message, a reminder that sometimes all you need to do is maintain a secure grip, things will pass.

I bought the poster because I had a very strong memory of seeing it in my local video shop, circa 1993. I must have been 9 or 10- too young to have watched the film or to want to.

The poster was all.

It was so striking, dominated by that phrase, size A2, stuck on the wall, an advertisement, but also art.

Periodically, I’d recall that poster. There was no rational reason for the memory to be so entrenched and vivid. But it stood out amongst mostly blurred memories of my life at that age.

Why does one thing strike us and not another? Why did that poster choose me or I it for something special?

I believe the best art is that which is encountered with as little preamble as possible. I don’t want to read about or discuss something I have yet to experience.

My subconscious makes the decision of what is important or not. Or so I guess. Because I don’t know how I curate my experiences. I cannot force a picture to be special.

What was it about that poster in a small town video rental store over 30 years ago?

I have that picture now. I own it. I love having it to see on a daily basis. I concur with my 9 year old self. We share the same taste.

But because the poster exists now, in my kitchen, it no longer exists then, in the video store. I don’t have the image in my mind’s eye. By possessing it I have effectively erased the memory.

Did my subconscious bring out that image from time to time as a way of preserving the memory? An unfelt anxiety of losing something that should be remembered? It was out of my control. It still is.

What is better? The image in the mind or the image in the world?

I prefer to see my words in the world than jumbled in my head. But only once they are edited for public consumption.

Some things are happy to stay enclosed.

Once again, I proffer no definitive statement.

Perhaps one of the wisest and honest answers to a direct question: it depends.

“Here’s one firm law of history: Truth is known at precisely that point in time when nobody gives a shit.”

– Charles Simic, The Monster Loves His Labyrinth

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“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”

Philip K Dick, quoted in The Ashtray by Errol Morris

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What is the correct protocol for proclaiming a truth?

Is it the volume of evidence to hand?

Does it depend on the depth of experience of the proclaimer?

Does it rely on cold mathematical logic?

Is truth provable?

Is it even probable?

I’m happy to be ignorant of absolute truth.

I can live with ambiguity.

It’s a survival mechanism.

I cannot imagine being a dogged investigator of what really happened or what is actually true.

I don’t have the temperament for defimitive statements.

I can muster a tepid, “this is what I think.”

I try to avoid “this is what I know.”

I don’t need to be right.

I can be negligent of reality, secure in the knowledge that it will carry on regardless of my level of engagement.

It’s comforting to know that the world is not dependent on my vigilance.

It seems I am more interested in creating my own realities. I enjoy my imagination. I have an inclination to be entertained, I’m not one for debate. But if someone writes what they think and believe in a compelling way I am liable to have a read and, perhaps, readjust my ideas of truth and reality.

It’s likely I am not an engaged citizen. Maybe the world doesn’t need 8 billion people pursuing the truth. It’s improbable that we will all agree on the same answer. And likely, and proven by history, that the defense of one truth against another creates serious problems.

So what is left after this avoiding of the truth?

An acceptance of reality, but with plenty of mental capacity for the pursuit of the imagination.

“Nobody can teach you anything. This is the first truth. We teach ourselves. All my life I have lived in books, in libraries. I remember every library in my life as I remember my lovers, their smells, the texture of their skin, the taste, even the brightness in the air around them. Or the darkness. Yes, every library is for me like a woman, erotic, a creature of the dark, full of smells and textures, tastes.”

– Jorge Luis Borges, quoted in Borges and Me: An Encounter, Jay Parini

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“lust /Inst/ n. & v. • n. 1 strong sexual desire. 2 a (usu. foll. by for, of) a passionate desire for (a lust for power). b (usu. foll. by of) a passionate enjoyment of (the lust of battle). 3 (usu. in pl.) a sensuous appetite regarded as sinful (the lusts of the flesh). • v.intr. (usu. foll. by after, for) have a strong or excessive (esp. sexual) desire.”

– Della Thompson (ed.), The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Current English, Ninth Edition

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What is it to describe the effect books have on me?

I need them. I need to read. I need the adventure of being lost in the page.

I am not brave, but my curiosity is strong. It expresses itself in the narrow confines of printed text.

I can say I have book lust, plain and simple. I certainly have a strong and excessive desire to acquire and consume books.

I can zoom out, look down at myself with pity at this desire and addiction.

It can’t be helped. But it won’t be the ruin of me. How can reading destroy a man? I like to look at this mania as my mid life crisis. I still haven’t figured out where I belong in the world. I think the next book could offer me an answer.

It’s a fool’s errand but I am a happy fool. And I have modest tastes.

I don’t hunger for the immaculate first edition. I simply want to read. Give me any old edition. However my heart breaks a little when I receive a print on demand copy. It is sterile and devoid of romance. But it’s words I want so I read on regardless.

I make books my own by marking their pages with annotations. Each book I own is transfigured by my hand. This is the conversation I have with the book. As an introvert, I am happiest with these silent conversations.

There is no end in sight. This will be a lifetimes pursuit. There are an infinite number of books for me to read in the years I have.

Books will never run out. What a joyful, marvelous and reassuring thought.

Lucky me!

“When none appeared, he finally admitted that he hadn’t written anything in months. “But I’m thinking about it,” he said. Consider that comment in another context. “You said you were training for the Olympics—how’s that going?” “I’m working on the training.” “But are you actually training?” “No, I haven’t trained in months, but I’m thinking about it.” An athlete doesn’t just train the night before the big game. S/he does the work every day, making it a habit as regular as breathing. You get it done, period. This means actually writing, not sitting at a coffee shop with your laptop open to the same page you’ve been staring at for the last month, waiting for someone to see what’s on the screen and say, “So, are you a writer?” (You know who you are.”

– J. Michael Straczynski, Becoming a Writer, Staying a Writer

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“Inevitably, the conversation turns to how far ahead I work. When they learn about the six-week daily-strip deadline and the 12-week Sunday-page deadline, a visitor almost never fails to remark: “Gee, you could work real hard, couldn’t you, and get several months ahead and then take the time off?” Being, as I said, a slow learner, it took me until last year to realize what an odd statement that really is. You don’t work all of your life to do something so you don’t have to do it.”

– Charles M. Schulz, My Life With Charlie Brown

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Why write? Because it’s better than talking about it.

What other activity do you have where rank amateurs starting from zero, have hopes and expectations of one day becoming a paid professional?

Because it is so deceptively simple to pick up pen and peck on keyboard it seems as if anyone can do it. And we can.

But there are rewards far beyond the rewards from others.

As an introvert, I am happier communicating from behind barriers. Lengthy phone calls are not a strong point. I’m liable to share little of what’s on my mind.

But amongst friends like Charles and J. Michael, I happily converse.

How lovely it is not to batch cook my writing. It’s a thread of seemingly infinite length that I unravel day by day. I don’t want to get to the end of it. Then what?

But unravelling is work. No one pays me. No meetings are held. I let down only myself by not turning up to the job.

I aim to be the best boss in the world. This company of one, I never want to leave.

What compensation is greater than doing what you love?

“What I lack then is confidence that my thinking and writing is not nonsense and that the persistent dedication through the years is not the symptom of some mental aberration.”

– Eric Hoffer, quoted in Eric Hoffer: the Longshoreman Philosopher by Tom Bethell

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“If I knew my own mind, I would not make essays. I would make decisions.”

– Michel de Montaigne, quoted in Good Prose by Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd

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Writing can be a form of hiding out amongst words. If I plant them in the right way, there is a chance they grow to cover my insecurities.

By writing ideas down they do not do anything of themselves. Action still needs to be taken in the real world for them to take effect.

But what these thoughts do is clear a path. They allow me to practice who I am in safety. Because I struggle to describe myself. If told to give an elevevator pitch on who I am and what I stand for, I’m liable to mumble and shutter.

I don’t think I stand for anything. I’ve always struggled to create a tether to reality. If it was clear perhaps I wouldn’t be compelled to write. I would be a man of action. Maybe people would write about me. That’s never going to happen. I’d rather be the observer than the observed.

There it is! I’ve written a little and discovered some of who I am.

An observer.

An observer who fucking loves books. And as reading is a form of observation, I can double down on this identity.

I sit with Eric and Michel here. Unsure if what I write means anything, or serves anyone. Asking questions of myself without acting out the answers.

But I can be a man of action.

I know a brave act I’ve performed on more than one occasion.

I’ve hurled myself across the room, despite the fear and danger, to press that awesome button… publish!

“The wisdom of others remains dull till it is writ over with our own blood. We are essentially apart from the world; it bursts into our consciousness only when it sinks its teeth and nails into us.”

Eric Hoffer , The Passionate State of Mind

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“One evening, contrary to my custom, I drank black coffee and could not sleep. Ideas rose in crowds; I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination.”

– Jules Henri Poincaré, as quoted in The Courage to Create by Rollo May

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I am a willing victim of great ideas.

I submit: roll over; show my belly.

Why resist the inevitable?

“How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise.”

– Don DeLillo, White Noise

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“Healthy is lack of disease. I always think that “dis-ease” would be a better way to write the word because it is literally the lack of ease in moving blood, waste materials, food, and yourself around that is the problem…

…I use Darwin’s definition of fitness: the ability to do a task.

That’s it.”

– Dan John, The Basics Will Never Fail You

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There’s a lot of talk about mental health but what about mental fitness?

If mental health is the optimal interplay of the neurons, better said perhaps as a sense of optimism and wellbeing, then what is mental fitness?

The ability to do a task.

Some of us may suffer from poor mental health, yet excellent mental fitness.

We are good at getting tasks done by the method of compartmentalisation.

I can complete the basics of getting up, getting to work on time, performing a job and interacting with others. They are achieved using mental fitness.

How I talk to myself just after my alarm goes off, my internal dialogue and reactions throughout the day, the little self talk before going to sleep, that is mental health.

You can fake mental fitness, practice doing a task, but mental health is not so easily boosted by bravado.

Mental fitness is just focusing on performing a series of actions that yield results.

I can put on a mask. But what if it slips?

Mental fitness requires diligence and action. I’ve got that squared away.

Where do I start with the universe inside my head?

“I used to think that autobiography was a form of weakness, and perhaps I still do. But I also think that, if you’re weak, it’s childish to pretend to be strong.”

– Hilary Mantel, Giving up the Ghost

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“I do not want a man to use his strength to get my attention.”

– Michel de Montaigne, quoted in Good Prose by Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd

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So what is honesty? Sharing every thought that comes into your head? Revealing every nook and cranny of oneself? Raking the cuttings of our past selves?

Perhaps not so extreme. Honesty could be as simple as not speaking an untruth when asked a direct question.

Because, as writers, no one is asking us direct questions except ourselves, we are let off the hook in terms of what we reveal. After all, we are both interviewer and interviewee.

So what type of questions do these daily posts reveal? Who do I want to be on this page? An honest bore, or a restrained liar?

Perhaps the character I am happy to be here is a curious optimist. Curious for the thoughts of others, optimistic that one day all of these collected phrases will add up to an answer to the meaning of it all. Somehow collectively show me who I am.

Is it weak to ask questions? Those who seem to have all the answers but no curiosity about others are surely masking their own weaknesses.

My weakness is not having definitive answers for anything. I am inexpert at everything.

But I’m willing to learn. And to share what I find out.