|almost, almost . . .|
Here it is, the optimal moment of my day
- el punto dulce -
the hinge my day moves on, the hour that sets the rhythm for whatever I can do within the white space that lies between sunup / sundown.
It is the present corruption of this powerful hour, the seige on this effective capitol of my long day's realm that is part of el porqué when I ask myself, ¿Por qué el rencor?
Porque el punto dulce.
|. . . far, far too late|
If I'm not writing by the sweet spot of the day, then forget it as pointless. No punto sin el punto dulce. If I waste that sweet spot on errands, meetings, scrubbing, attending to whatnot, then Sayonara to scribbling anything worth the candle. I might as well just go to bed, the writing day over before it begins.
This is of course superstition.
When first starting out, young and freshly determined, hearing some writers explain how they could only write with No.2 pencils sharply sharpened, or only facing south, or only with whatever however it had worked the first time it worked, I decided I could not afford such superstitions.
And yet my superstitions have crept in anyway. For example, I believe it jinxes the writing to talk about it. It puts me off the writing even to have someone ask, "So are you writing today?" And if someone elderly and understandably bored asks me and asks me about my writing, I can't write at all. If they say, "So what are you writing about? Of course you know what you're writing about. Come on, tell me. You can tell me. I just want to know," I am better off shoveling gravel or cleaning closets.
My closets are mostly all cleaned now.
And I can't afford this superstition any longer.
And as for the sweet spot - I love it that Edith Wharton began every day writing in bed for a few hours - no doubt while trim housemaids in starched cap and apron poked the fire, opened the draperies and brought tea in delicate Messein. You can almost catch the rustle of their silent assiduous bustle in the words with which Wharton finally found a way to populate her page.
But each of us must write out of what and who and where we are. So, my punto dulce has been colonized by blundering monolingual settlers who look to a motherland I cannot recognize, nor give allegiance to.
Happily I am a nomadic people.
Up tents and away.
The day is long. We make for ourselves all des puntos dulces we require.