The Rotating Restaurant
How to write a memoir: give yourself a year, write against the clock – and commit to never writing again. An excerpt from the 365 series.
For years I’ve had this notion of going into one of those rotating restaurants that spins around a city in an hour. I’d bring along a pad of yellow paper and a reliable, flowing pen, the kind that’s easy on your hand. I’d wait my turn on the leather reception banquette, and I’d follow the hostess and move past the drifting waiter station and step out onto the rotating floor. I’d be seated, and I’d say thanks and order my drink and get a window seat table. I’d look out at the sunset skyline and the silhouette of water towers and the tropical clusters of neon signage. I’d note the exact angle of my starting point and the speed of the current against the shoreline of silk plants and air conditioning window vents drifting slowly past my feet.
And for that hour I would write as if I would never be allowed to write again — not a single word afterwards in the service of art. It would be an exercise in pouring the heart out, in discovery. I would put my head down and write with abandon, beyond grammar, beyond punctuation, beyond rules, beyond spelling, beyond re-reading, beyond appraisal, simply moving from thought to thought, gathering ideas up like wildflowers, stepping from stone to stone as they steadily appeared beneath my racing feet. I would blend it all together, dancing slow or dancing fast as the tempo demanded, turning stumbles into steps, but dancing always, the only rule to be unstoppable and to flow, to press through my cramping hand.
And I’d glance up at my neon landmarks and make sure that I hadn’t run out my clock, that I hadn’t circled home again, losing time only to the waitress checking on me and the drink I haven’t touched.
And then, at the end, I would commit to sharing it.
The full essay here:
Every single word, Adam.
Exactly.