There are journeys you can take by reading, crossing the days and nights by way of the texts that pass beneath your eyes. And journeys by writing, too, when one day’s work seems to release itself into another’s like a bird loosed upward into the sky. One day, then another spreading itself before you like a white page to be filled with writing: what can be happier than that miraculous succession?
Imagine a summer of such days, one after another, one day falling onto another like dominoes. And imagine raising a work out of such days like a carnival tent, and all the wonders it might contain. A whole summer’s work, beginning to end, and you could stand back hands on hips and say, yes, that’s what I made.
And when nothing seems to make itself from writing? When it is the same day that begins each time over again, the same blank page upon which you’ve made no impression? And when no texts have passed beneath your eyes because you were waiting all the while for the writing that didn’t come, like a hitchhiker by the side of the road?
Lars Iyer's Blog 