There's a stretch of road off the beaten path that I drive, and on it I've unfolded and written on my mental sheaves entire scenes. Yet once back within the confines of mortar and brick the words vaporize leaving behind a few shreds to pick at. If I don't attack quickly, the crumbs turn to dust and I'm lost again.
This strange occurrence happened yesterday. The sun blazed its light and I couldn't escape, my car having windows to draw in the specter. My Ipod as company, a certain song played helping to evolve this scene that I'm sure sat between the gray folds of my brain for quite some time. It was then that I realized the connection - that there is a distinct possibility that creative being follows the sunlight. Brightness. Could it affect my personal creative space?
In my former residence I wrote in four different rooms. Each had many windows and I could comfortably sit with laptop, desktop or paper and pen and let it flow. It was there that every single new story began, many to fruition. Since moving to a new location the muse has gone into hibernation. I haven't spilled new words, have only reworked those I created at the former residence, the place with all the light and windows.
At my new residence I have an office. It has one window facing west. The walls are green, formerly pink. The furniture has been rearranged so many times that I dare not move my desk again for fear it will collapse. Out of certain desperation I've taken my work to another room and tried creating something new.
I once boasted that I could write anywhere - I didn't need no stinkin' babblin' brook and green, lush meadows to steer my muse. Her grace could work anywhere. And now I find that perhaps I was full of shit. Now I find that after living at the new residence for sixteen months I haven't felt the rush of words. It's as if I'm in permanent eclipse.
This week I'll put my theory to the test, albeit unintentionally. I've reached the place of an unfinished manuscript that is an open road ahead, just waiting for the rest of the story that has simmered between my brain's gray folds.
Here's to a new week of uncertainty. May the gods be kind and open the channels for creative light to blaze in. After all, I cannot drive and write (without getting a ticket).
Cheers!
4 comments:
I've moved my writing space around too, and find I write best at my desk, most especially when I don't think I want to be there. I can see the fireplace, the window, openings that lead to two other rooms in the house. It's open and airy and when I set my mind to it, neat. When I edit or revise and I'm in the zone, I can sit anywhere.
You go, Kath! Write on!
Amy, I find that I can edit anywhere,too. It's the new words that get stuck according to locale. This could be a phase or another excuse blocking my muse. :-(
But, I'm writin' on!
How about heading to a coffee shop with large floor to ceiling windows?
And revising is writing, so don't sweat the new words and one day they will come. I'm sure of it.
Great idea, Robin. If only there were such a thing in my berg (Dunkin Donuts and Tim Hortons are like McDonalds or Burger King). But, I think you are right. The words will come. Nothing is forever, right, including dry spells.
Post a Comment