Dreams of ink and eye
or, how that title has no bearing on this post
I do my best editing on the toilet.
They say that in dreams, no one can read what you write.
OK so I made that up, based on something I have a vague recollection of hearing somewhere, somewhen, about how you cannot read words within the realm of sleep. Should you glimpse their form, all you find is a blurry tangle of unparsable looping swirls.
Reminds me a bit of how AI art generators handle text:
This all probably confirms we’re in a simulation. Oh wel lo. I’m OK with that.
Sooo-anyway, onto what’s below. A sliver of a dream. We haven’t had a dream for a bit, so let’s have a dream to bridge the dream-gap that’s likely formed not-in-anyone’s mind.
I awoke to a phrase1 that had permeated my sleep-state, a little thing that slipped between my ears during dark’s embrace. It didn’t leave me the next day. Nor the next week. It refused to leave me, in fact, until I wrote it out. It’s a silly thing, the few words that escaped, but here they are.
I do my best editing on the toilet.
That’s what my editor told me, via text message.
From a toilet.
We never spoke on the phone, not anymore. Once he’d discovered the detrimental economy of text communication, he decided it wasn’t necessary.
Why the toilet? I wrote, unsure if I wanted to know the answer.
Because it’s quiet. No one interrupts you. There’s a certain peace to be had on a toilet.
These words continued, like we were having an actual conversation on the phone. When I thought we were done, I'd be alerted to yet another text.
It needs to be a good toilet. His latest message.
A good toilet? I tapped out somewhat reluctantly, eyeing the last wisps of steam rising from my undrunk morning coffee.
The three dots informed a long reply was inbound.
Yes. Many factors. Natural lighting, clean (of course), white or blue tiles (no mould to distract the eye with worry). Heated flooring an added bonus, though a shaft of sunlight through a skylight acceptable. Not cold, but also not hot. No air freshener; just natural air. Cosy, but not cramped and not too spacious. There’s got to be a sense of place when you’re sat there.
I’d never thought of toilets in such detail, I told him.
You should. It’ll change your life.
Change my life? I looked up. Had I been too unconcerned about toilets? In, out, done with. My usual routine. How many toilets had I passed through without any knowledge or consideration of form, layout, design? All of them, was the answer. My brain began to think of toilet architects lamenting those like me who never stop to look and admire and I pictured a scene of these men and women, nodding, strolling from toilet to toilet within a gallery of toilets, uttering small approvals. And at the centre was my editor, cradling a large glass of Chardonnay.
I shook my head, aware that several minutes had past.
Do you have a favourite toilet? I ventured, unsure of why I was letting this go on.
Oh yes, many. I keep a log book.
A log book. I paused, squinting at those words, more images forming. Was the notepad touching his naked knee as he scrawled away, or held in the air like some trophy? In a public lavatory would he wait for an empty cubicle to sit and jot within, or be content to rest on the sink as others washed and watched?
I decided I didn't want to ask these things, resolving to end the conversation. I moved away, but my phone soon vibrated. Sighing, I eyed the little symbol and found myself drawn back.
The small Moleskine ones are the best, he continued, oblivious of my expression. Compact enough to remain in your pocket at all times.
At all times? This was becoming too much. My mind turned to those rare visits when we met in person during the early stages of my literary career. Had there really been a little notebook squished against his seat? At sixty, he must have accrued many such notebooks, surely.
Then my mind recalled his visit here. Somewhere within that notepad there would be an entry from my own house.
Do you log every toilet you visit? I was typing, hating my fingers. I looked to my coffee and touched the cup. Lukewarm and ruined, I poured the contents into the sink.
His reply came almost before I had hit send.
Every one, he wrote.
But you also edit on the toilet? I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to where we had started—a piece I owed that was overdue for an online publication.
Most things. Smaller stories I’ll work on at my desk; longer pieces require a good toilet.
More questions emerged at his paradoxical response, but I had to stop this.
Look, I wrote. I have to go. I’m still shy of the word count and I can’t write with distractions.
At that, I turned off my phone. What he had to say to that could wait. I boiled the kettle and set about brewing another coffee.
Then I sat, staring once again at the empty page.
***
N—,
See changes. I’ve removed quotation marks. A bit livelier that way, don’t you think?
Call me.
—your editor.
Well, there we are. A short read is a, err, short read. Silliness (idiocy?) of the piece aside, I did want to explore writing something with dialogue that was implied rather than strictly set out. As well as whether I could actually write something exclusively from the toilet. Which I didn’t, don’t worry. No toilets were sat on during the writing of this piece. (As for the editing …)
I don’t have an editor, of course. Probably shows.
As always, you being here to read these posts is oh-so-special. If you’d like to, you can hit Like and drop a comment below.
The one quoted at the top, which is the opening line of the actual story. I could just write it out again, but oh wel lo.
Hilarious!! Imagining an audible version, with atmospheric sound :)
I liked this: humorous, even though the idea of sitting in the loo writing 8s horrible IMHO. Conversation without quotation marks reminded me of NW by Zadie Smith: drove me nuts. Good back and forth though.