This is a variant of an article I published as part of a Writers’ Diary series: Day 2. It’s partially autofiction.

Today I decided, contrary to conventional wisdom, that the most efficient writing-related activity would be to do absolutely no writing at all. At least, not physically anyway. I do craft a lot of articles in my head, after which I have to go through the rather laborious and tedious process of making notes before I forget, and then actually typing it up the so-far-virtual piece. If scientists could find a way of plugging my head straight into the printer, I’d have a great deal more time on my hands. Time I could devote to writing.

A great stimulus, I find, is photography. I always try and take a digital camera with me wherever I go, or at least my phone. It fits into a pocket, and now and then there’s a great shot just waiting to be taken. All one has to do is spot the potential shot, and then take it.

At other times, I like to take photos of ordinary everyday objects just to be able to illustrate articles on one of my websites without having to concern myself with copyright issues. There is another reason as well: how will historians and writers of the future know about the ephemera of the age we’re living in unless people document it? A pile of rubbish or a London bus may not be subjects worthy of a photographic prize, or a photographic gallery, but photographs of such things contribute to people’s understanding of the past. I know I find looking at photos and films taken long ago quite fascinating.

And occasionally I like to take pictures of strange or beautiful patterns, such as formed by sunlight through trees or the shadow of a wrought iron gate on the ground, to serve as a stimulus for a bit of creative writing in the future.

I store a lot of my pictures on Flickr (http://www.flickr.com/terryfreedman), where they languish mostly unseen and therefore mostly unloved – but at least they are there should I need something with which to illustrate an article. I also have a secret repository of drawings and photos on Google Photos. I say “secret”: I mean I have not made them publicly available, as they are for my use only.

So, today I will take myself off to the park, enjoying the unusually clement weather and just relaxing, and not really thinking about writing at all. With some luck I will manage to take some nice photos though, which I hope will come in handy one of these days.

After that I will come back home, to do some reading. I have mixed feelings about the value of reading for a writer. The conventional wisdom is that the more well-read you are, the better a writer you will be. I’m not so sure. Part of me thinks that the less cluttered your mind is with other people’s thoughts, the less derivative a writer you are likely to be. Or perhaps all writers are derivative in some way, as all our experiences go into a kind of melting pot.

I first started to doubt the value of reading, specifically literary criticism, when doing my English ‘A’ Level. After a week spent reading and making copious notes on the views of the Great and the Good about Hamlet, I came to the following conclusions:

1. All these experts completely disagree with each other, and presumably they can’t all be right.

2. They all back up their arguments or draw their conclusions by extensive references to the text of the play itself.

3. Taking points 1 and 2 together, I had just as much right to form my own opinions which, as long as they were grounded in the text of the play, were just as valid as anyone else’s.

4. Following on from point 3, why would I want to waste my time trying to glean insights from all those other people?

Bear in mind that that was my 18 year-old self speaking, and I no longer hold such self-assured, bordering on arrogant, views. Nevertheless, when it came to my thinking about writing a review of a production of Waiting For Godot at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London, it occurred to me that rather than do a huge amount of research into the play in order to check if my views were ‘correct’, I’d be better off just ploughing ahead with it.

Incidentally, that’s another work that is currently residing in my head; otherwise I’d have given a reference for it here. To be honest, that review may never make it to the written word, but would that matter? After all, from my point of view the act of writing would have taken place. Nevertheless, it would be a shame that others would not have the benefit of reading it. (I wonder if ‘benefit’ is, perhaps, too presumptuous. Perhaps ‘experience’ is a more suitable word.)