I have always liked writing. From pouring over my books at school as a child, to taking notes, writing minutes, reports, memorandums, filling in documents, writing essays, descriptions, artist statements in adulthood.
In our van we carry nearly all my books. There are a lot of them, excess weight, but my treasured possessions. When my arts journals arrive by post, I scour them, for they are one of my main sources of current intellectual debate. Along with newspapers, which are difficult to come by right now, I take out lots of cuttings and file them in my books and files, relevant to their subject.
I make lists - shopping lists, 'to do' lists, birthday lists, lists of mailing lists I belong to, destinations we've visited lists, exhibitions I've been to and want to go to lists, thoughts and ideas lists, 'don't forget' lists. This list could go on.
I leave post-it notes on the stool, by my bed, stuck on books and magazines, even on the dinette window, much to the silent annoyance of Shawn.
But what to do with all this information that is in situ, divulging, waiting to be re-read, or spat out? This literary system plays an enormous part in my practice, working positively or negatively in the creative process.
I belong to Facebook, but not the best at nattering, and Tweeting looks a bit too quick for me, although I haven't tried it out. Blogging can be a new medium for me to make notes and share in a digital format. We shall see how I get on.
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