eleven minutes

I used to write 3 pages a day, a very good suggestion from Julia Cameron’s ‘The Artists’ Way, but I think now that I need to tailor that suggestion to my own personality. Ten minutes of writing per day, or maybe eleven.  Yes, actually when I think about it, eleven minutes (also the title of one of my favorite Coelho novels) is more like it. An odd number (for whatever reason, I’ve always liked odd numbers), my birthday is on the 11th (10/11, which may explain the reason why I wavered between ten minutes and eleven minutes at first), and well, to be honest, ten minutes, a nice round ten minutes in which I could flesh out something juicy, or just write about what kind of a day it was, or have a rant, or, well, you get the picture. . . and then, it’s over. A unclimatic ending, no shaboo-shabang, no ping of a penny on tin, or a dense gong, no nothing. 

But, in eleven minutes, 

same scenario, a story in it’s completion, looking so so bleak, and then, 

in that very last minute, the fateful thing swings this way and that, and you think which one, which one? And there is a moment which may be brilliant, a

trivial beautiful possibility.