Confessions of a Poker Writer: Decent Days and Nights

Confessions of a Poker Writer: Decent Days and Nights

Lee Davy continues his confessions of a poker writer series by looking at the prevalence of loneliness in a writer’s life.Confessions of a Poker Writer: Decent Days and Nights

My left hamstring aches as I sit upright in my chair. It’s older than my son. The chair – not the hamstring. Like a warning light in the car, it’s telling me to get up and move.

I flick on iTunes and press play.

“This is a brand new problem. A problem without any clues. If you know the clues it’s easy to get through.” Sings the Futureheads front man Barry Hyde.

I get up and start to sing. I only know a few words. Like my writing I fill in the gaps with a lot of bullshit. I shake my leg. The blood flows. I walk to the window and look across the Welsh sky.

It’s grey.

Everything is grey.

The buildings are grey, the car park below is grey, and the sky is grey. I am even wearing a pair of grey tracky bottoms and a grey t-shirt.

It feels as if the sky is falling in.

I fear the impending crush.

“But you look confused and you don’t know what to do. It’s hard to get an answer when you haven’t got a clue. If you work it out tell me what you find.”

Did Hyde write this song for all the writers who are sitting on their lonesome wondering how to manage their loneliness?

It seems so.

A police siren wails in the background. The sound of air hums. My bedroom window slams shut, opens and slams shut again. A design fault, but one that keeps me company.

I sit back down.

I turn off the music.

I start typing.

I’ll write one article and then I will sing a song. I’ll write another before playing one game of FIFA14. I’ll write another before going for a walk. I’ll write one more and then watch Arsenal v Besiktas. Then I will go to bed and write some more.

I write well in the mornings, not so good in the afternoon and then great in the night. I get most of my inspiration in the evening. It’s currently 16:30. That’s my excuse for this.

I asked for this.

I told the universe that I wanted a job on my terms. One where I could wake up when I wanted, kept me close to my son, and removed any presence of a boss.

I am free.

Free as a bird.

I am also lonely as fuck.

So incredibly lonely.

My wife is in Los Angeles organizing our second wedding (a story for another time), and my son is with my first wife. It sounds like a script for a movie called Three Weddings and a Lonely Little Bastard.

I wonder if there is a Chinese looking Hugh Grant out there to play me?

I got my hair cut today.

I didn’t intend to. I wanted it to grow forever. I wanted to release it outside of my window. Who knows, perhaps someone would have climbed up and had a cup of tea with me?

I think it looks good, but there is nobody else to approve. In my previous job I would have had plenty of views. I hated my job, but I liked a lot of the people. Energy is important. It’s a lesson I learned from my wife. I didn’t realize how important it was until it started to avoid me.

My shoulder is aching now.

The net I hung across my open window to keep out the flies ripples in the wind. I don’t even have flies to keep me company anymore. There was a silverfish in my bathroom this morning. I killed it. I felt really bad, but it looked like one of those worms from The Strain. The alien kind that infiltrate your bloodstream and turn you into a vampire.

I would be a crap vampire.

I have nobody to bite.

I do know that loneliness is a choice. I just find it tough to break free of the cycle that writing has created. The monotony is somewhat appealing, but I do feel like I am writing my life away at times.

People who don’t know shit from clay laugh at writers for sitting in Starbucks.

They haven’t got a fucking clue.

Starbucks has kept so many people away from Albert Pierrepoint’s noose. .

It’s the energy man. The buzzing, flitting, energy. You can pick up on the vibe. Watch strange characters; listen to wonderful conversations, and all for the price of a Vanilla Rooibos tea.

Ernest Hemingway used to do most of his writing in the Parisian cafes. He would sit there and write on his notepad. Today he sits next to my toilet and I read his thoughts when I am getting rid of last night’s smoothie.

I think I will make some food.

I’m feeling a little peckish.

That should take care of another hour.

Then I will write some more.

My leg is aching again.

The blood seems to be getting stuck.

Turn it up.

I need some decent days and nights.

And quick.