My writing tool is mental – my merry-go-round mind. It must be playful and skittish, with wery wittle worry, for me to succeed at wasabi writing … if I ever write well. When I cannot check the influx and interplay of real life, then I cannot use my mental writing tool.
My writing device is emotional. A split bag of complex tangles to share. I find that extreme experience gives me adjectival fodder. The calm, soft centre is a writer’s block for me. I must love or loathe something to write wonderful things about it.
My writing world is spatial. I can write anything anytime anywhere. But my selective writing milieu is home, with nobody else within a millivolt mile, and the TV droning on somewhere. The best writing time for me is late at night, after 2 or more stress-free hours and no need to rise up at early-elf morning.
My writing instrument is physical. It is a pen, a pencil and a notebook. The same pen, pencil and notebook for a while, in order for my creative juices to condescend to flow on-the-quick-ask. It is not a keratin keyboard – no, that’s work, not art.