I have discovered the perfect (and the worst) place to write: the M79 bus. Twice a day, for twenty to thirty minutes of constant interrupted pleasure, I can write to my heart’s content, inspired—or distracted—by the many characters, ranging from business men to foreign high school students. This particularly bus line starts and stops constantly, giving my writing the same jerky feel. My handwriting suffers horribly, and often I’ll record something that feels raw and powerful to discover that it is entirely unreadable.
During the wait for the bus, I listen to music, attempting to let my mind go and not focus on any one particular thing. Invariably, somehow, inspiration strikes the second I sit down, and it is a matter of catching up; I enter into a race with my hand, bracing myself against particular hard stops, then starting right in again.
I’ve had my slow days, and my completely impossibly days, but the vibrancy of the starting and stopping, the entering and exiting, fills my pen with something that isn’t always good but is usually never-ending (until, of course, it has to). The great days are the ones where I, ever impatient, completely lose track of stops and only barely make it off where I’m suppose to.
This week, I will likely end my (daily) excursions on the M79. I don’t know yet what bus or subway line I’ll be moving to. I suppose my message here is this: cherish the locations you are given to write, even if they seem less than ideal; there is a tremendous amount of gold to be found if you are a talented sifter.