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I’ve got nothing today. Things happened, of course, but I just don’t feel like writing about the things that did happen. Not because they’re bad or secret, I just feel like keeping most of a day to myself from time to time. I’m sat here now with a strong cup of tea and the sound of the ocean in my ears. The pacific is such a force.

I still want to live a in a lighthouse and read books in front of an open fire. I want to be surrounded by books. I want a comfy chair. I want wind howling at the windows, a gentle rattle reminding me of how completely vulnerable we are and how absolutely bonkers glass is. Hot sand that turns invisible and protects us. Weird stuff.

Alright, I’m going to finish this tea and go to bed. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to read. I’m exhausted and trying to get better sleep. It turns out that getting more sleep and drinking more water is just demonstrably good for you and it’s completely devastating because I’m terrible at both. Alas, I’ll just have to learn.

A slow Sunday after a weekend camping with great friends and our dogs. What a gift it is to spend time in nature with people and animals you love. I bought (and brought) entirely too much food, and basically everything else. At least we didn’t have to hike a mile uphill in the sun with carts or anything like that.

I spent the day listening to Sea Wall performed by Tom Sturridge in New York. There’s something so fucking great about that play. Performed by one person. No music, natural lighting, written in just three weeks. Three bloody weeks! The published playscript is slightly different to the New York one, so I transcribed it. I practiced it over and over because, well… I’m not sure, actually. I suppose I just wanted to, and that’s reason enough.

Without other responsibilities I think I’d just write things to perform and perform those things. I could do that now, of course, but it’s easier to imagine that you’d do it if only you had more time, or more energy, or more insert-excuse-here. I’m writing that down here because I want to acknowledge that it’s partly an excuse, and I want to figure out how to stop using that excuse.

What’s the shortest play I could write? What’s the smallest audience that would make me feel like I performed, and crucially (for me) with the chance that the person might not like it and might actually tell me that (i.e. they’re a critic or a stranger)? I’m sure a handful of words and a resident of the World Wide Web would do, but I’m almost certain I could do better than that.

I watched the one-woman stage show Fleabag today by Phoebe Waller-Bridge. I’ve tried watching a few film recordings of stage shows, and they often don’t really land for me because the usually-imposing stage feels too cramped, but a one-woman show with Phoebe sat on a stool the whole time works great. It almost works without video at all, but it’s much better with it.

I loved the TV show when I watched it, but the stage show is a masterpiece. It’s such a funny, moving, comforting piece of writing. A masterful performance. The smallest of facial expressions that can carry 30 seconds of complete silence and somehow make you laugh more than any of the space that’s filled with sound. Part of it is the familiar use of language that I miss, I’m sure.

I’d love to perform something like this someday. I’d love to write something this good. This weird mix of words that works on the page and works on the stage. Part novel, part poem, part screenplay. I’ve got Max Porter’s Shy on the coffee table in front of me, and I’ve been opening it all day to read a part aloud. It’s got those same qualities. I’m similarly inspired, and envious.

Do you ever feel like you’ve got a performer trapped in you? That everyone has, maybe? I really want to see everyone perform something. It could be something loud or quiet; fast or slow. I’ve had conversations with people that I wish had been caught on tape. Seen movement that should live forever on film. Occasionally, I’ll even write something myself that feels that way.