Morning pages are a great idea, and I try to fill at least a page in my notebook every day (usually with digressions on art, rants, and segments of nonexistent novels). At the same time, as I write them, I imagine a suburban housewife in a flowery maxi-dress, sipping chamomile tea on the back porch, and dashing down her thoughts in a pressed-flower notebook before the baby wakes up from her nap. By the way, she’s writing about the loveliness of the crocuses and amaryllises in her prissy little garden.
You know what that is? It’s a latent, misogynistic, anti-intellectual, anti-aesthetic urge. One that’s interfered with a LOT of writing and should immediately fuck off.
I’m working on it.
