‘Once, having nothing to do, I did a kind of writing exercise, just for fun. And I had fun.’
(Clarice Lispector, ‘Two stories my way’).
I also do writing exercises for fun, but only when I have other things to do. Now, for example, I’m supposed to be at work, giving a presentation to a visiting delegation (from Athens, I think) about managing anxiety in the workplace. But I’m sitting at home and pretending to be ill. Let’s say I’m pretending. I’m also supposed to call Uncle Jimmy, who might really be my granddad, it’s not clear. ‘On some days I think it’s over,’ he says, ‘it might as well be. What’s the use in sitting here and watching the telly every night?’ Then he’ll talk for half an hour about the Concert for George, the tribute concert for George Harrison performed at the Royal Albert Hall in 2002, which he has saved to his Digibox (‘an infernal machine’) and which he watches every few weeks. ‘One of the best live versions of All Things Must Pass in existence,’ he says, ‘it’s a belter. Scintillating.’ There are other things I should be doing. I should go to the gym to work on my core strength and hip flexibility. (Uncle Jimmy walks in circles around a petrol station every morning for half an hour). I should be doing naked calisthenics in the window with Kafka: jumping, stretching and spinning around for the good of my wellbeing. I should try and plan the next few years of my life, which increasingly look as if they’re going to go badly if I don’t ‘exercise positive, wilful agency’, as I believe it’s written on slide eighteen of the presentation I’m not delivering to the delegates. It’s impossible to work out where to begin. For now I’ll carry on with this little exercise, even though I should be doing another, more substantial writing exercise: I should be learning from the masters, and copying out a story by hand in order to understand the nuts and bolts of good writing. (And then changing a few details along the way, until the story becomes something else that I can write my name under). I’m thinking of trying to copy something from Clarice herself, maybe one of the little crônicas that feel like prayers disguised as reportage. But I have the feeling that this kind of exercise won’t be very fun today. I think it’s something to do with my wrist, and related to my broader difficulties with mobility. I just tried copying the first line of The Hunger Artist, and then a few random lyrics from 10CC songs (‘it hides a nasty stain that’s lying there’; ‘let’s buy a hotel’). But I had to stop. I was gripping the pen too tightly, as if trying to shatter it.
I’m going to call Uncle Jimmy instead. But there’s a Classic Albums documentary on Tom Petty’s Damn the Torpedoes on BBC Four right now, so I doubt he’ll answer. It doesn’t matter. I’ve had fun.
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