I was waiting for three hours at the Hotel Marriott, Tegucigalpa, for an interview TV Aztec today. Even then the information they gave me wasn’t brilliant. I didn’t go best prepared, but when I phoned yesterday they told me to bring just myself and my CV. I was expected to bring a portfolio of work. They left me a bit red-faced. I told them that I wasn’t given this information when I called and they apologised. Three hundred or more people must have turned up, some of whom knew each other from university it seemed. I was left on my tod thinking about what I was going to say. But as with most people waiting for three hours, my mind began to wonder (I need to read more of that Mindfulness book, stay focused!).
Instead, I wrote a few poems into my mobile phone. Some people get itchy feet, a common term used for saying that they are dying to travel or get away. I get itchy fingers, which might sound a bit dirty to a perverted mind, but it’s just when my fingers runaway with themselves. Earlier in the year, I was starting a book on a kidnap. The research for it has kind of gone off the boil due to setting up the translation business. But I have short story ideas, which I might include on this blog. After all, they are about Honduras.
Two of the poems I wrote today were for Pamela, which I will put on next week (she complains that I don’t write enough about her, “They’re coming babe!“). Anyway, here is a poem that is kind of inspired by a few conversations I had with my father when I was a teenager and I wanted to be the next Roddy Doyle, but was too busy procrastinating.
To The Writer Who Never Writes
I have a thousand, million words to say,
To tell the world a story,
Everyday I’ll be churning them out,
While burning in the sweet flames of glory.
Instead of looking in the mirror,
Or dreaming these useless thoughts,
You need to discover the attitude called do,
Writing down every thought, in every place –
(“Even when I’m doing a poo?”)
I don’t want to hear this romance,
Nor will I consider you ’til you’re writing,
Because so often you give up like a petty little child
While the world around you keeps on fighting.
I will be a success, and I shall profit,
Just watch me shoot to the stars.
I’ll be happy as Larry,
A very pretty girl I’ll marry,
And be driven around in fancy cars.
I think you’ve been spending too much time in bars, my lad,
And seeing stars rather than reaching for them.
Just do it, son, do it, and don’t just dream it,
Or soon you’ll be alone, under the thumb, and feeling numb.
If you’re like this, see the below video. In the meantime, I’m off to bed.
By the way, I’m reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It’s already one of the best books I’ve ever read. I’ve only ever read Christmas Carol by Dickens. I don’t know what to start on after this by Dickens. Any recommendations?