It's hard to write when the music is playing. Nightmares on Wax makes my mind wander elsewhere. It's also hard to write at home. Maybe Virginia Woolf didn't exactly mean a room of one's own in one's own house. Perhaps, writing outside on the porch would suffice? This might not do at this time of year here in Texas where you can turn into beef jerky or beautiful leather work in under 30 minutes of taking the sun at full force. You might be able to spare yourself another 15 minutes if you are in the shade. Doubtful.
Waking up early was working for a few days; however, I feel entirely guilty about rising in the morning, before everyone else, and plopping myself on the table to write, while dishes and laundry and the gnawing puppy beg for attention. Getting up and handling that for a couple of minutes turns into me being lost in housework until it's time to water the garden or go somewhere. This is my fault and I blame no one. I am so easily distracted. You'll see later that I'm even distracted by my own writing.
And then it's Monday and it's time to go to work so ten hours of my day are barricaded by a desk, a computer and people. I sneak in writing at the lunch hour. It makes me feel devious at times.
I miss the woods of North Carolina where I believe our neighboring cabin resident was there solely to write. There must be a place to write that does not require flying to another state or venturing into nowhere land in my own city. How does this work for most? I'm going to try to tap into different areas of town to write in. It can't be a new place though because I'll be taken by all the new things that I'll again forget to write what I'm supposed to be writing.
Am I whining? I think I just caught myself whining. Forgive me.
I also have an unhealthy obsession with the color of writing pens. This is a complete and total distraction. There are twelve different colors to choose from and each one of them rouses a different mood in me.
Green is the best companion at the moment although I'm really begging fuchsia to write something other than awful Spanish stories of women dancing on cobblestone streets. Less trite, more fun fuchsia, come on.
Blue betrays me often. It's the go to color and it knows it. It seems to just want to loop and loop the same word over and over like a bad record spinning under a broken needle. Really, it's old. I'm over it.
Red makes me feel in charge, but rolls its eyes each time I want to form a word. Snobby little priss.
Orange begs for attention and writes in banters. I don't understand her hipster mentality.
Green leans against the desk and knows I'll come back to it because it's giving me a story of love, loss and growth. Like a garden.
Light blue wants to desperately take the spotlight away from green as it maneuvers through stories of grief and then hops and skips over to where the birds tweet, the flowers blossom, and the river runs rabid. Then, it wants to lose itself in grief all over. Light blue is bipolar. Sigh.
So writing has been very productive if you count the pages I've scribbled on; it's been less productive if you to try to decipher it all. 8 stories. I counted them. And only one of them makes sense, but they all want to be told.
The writing life. Let's see what purple wants to say.
No comments:
Post a Comment