Not every post of mine will completely transform your life. Sometimes I’ll write simply…to write. Even when there’s naught of which to write, I will write.
Hemmingway said, “Write profusely when there’s naught to write of. Anon. Write as if your life depended upon such thing. Write, my fellow. Until you are drained of words. Write…until death consumes you.”
Hemmingway never said that. (And anon is just thrown in there. For effect.)
Today was productive. So much of what I’m freelance working on and personal project working on will be revealed very soon. I know you’re chomping at the bit for developments! Patience, patience my dear friends.
She that but little patience knew,
From childhood on, had now so much
A grey gull lost its fear and flew
Down to her cell and there alit,
And there endured her fingers’ touch.
No, he really said that! I promise!
Were I to try to decipher the puzzle of Yeats’ quote, I would say he meant that I should lay aside all glasses of whiskey and sleep the sleep of the dead. Because, where there is death, there is new life. And maybe, on the other side of that death-sleep, a venti white mocha coffee and waffle sandwich from Jack In The Box await(?)
Yeats never meant that. (And venti is just thrown in there. For effect. I never even finish a tall.)