Right. Write. I’m back to trying to write every morning, no matter what. Taking a key, I suppose, from The Artist’s Way, I figure the only way I’m going to get my thesis written in the next 80-odd days (*gulp*) is to simply get back in the habit of writing freely. Thus, this.
I used to do this exercise religiously, when I was trying to move towards freelance writing. I’d wake up every morning, pour a cup of coffee, and sit at my desk. My desk was next to a patio, tucked in a nook, and I could write for a bit, and if I needed inspiration, I could just turn my head and look out the window. The immediate view was a small garden on a tiny deck. Planter boxes perched on deck railings, full of vines and ivy’s and sweet peas and other trailing plants, larger pots of camelias and grasses and other pretty things, hanging icicle lights and a torch in the corner for light. Beyond that was a view of Elliot Bay, shifting and silver and blue. I’d sit, coffee warming my hands, watching the container ships move with surprising speed across the water, timing how long it took them to pass behind the single tall building blocking a continuous view.
Today, I’m sitting in the middle of my sisters bed, having just woken up. I have one cat firmly fixed on my lap; occasionally he reaches out and tries to swat the keyboard, but at the moment he’s resting his head on my left hand, which makes typing interesting. The other cat is standing near the litterbox, at the foot of the closet. His eyes are half-closed, like he’s going to sleep soon, but I know better. He’s just waiting for me to leave the room so he can scoop the litter out, his new game.
I could hear Toby walking around downstairs; so could the cats, which is why they made it about three feet into the hall before scurrying back in here. Dad’s probably out on the phone in the backyard. There’s coffee, but I’d need to go downstairs to get it, and that seemed like too much mucking about before writing. When I finish with this, I’ll relocate my stuff downstairs and have coffee and a small breakfast.
My immediate view is that, as I already alluded to, of my sisters room. If I wanted to, I could probably set myself up with a view of trees and squirrell’s, but it’s a shaded and closed view. The horizon disappears, instead of opens endlessly before me, full of potential. It’s a secret sort of view, whispering and hinting at things, instead of broad and inviting. I suppose, on reflection, that is appropriate, as it reflects my mental state. Then, those years ago – slightly over four! – life really did feel broadly inviting and full of open potential. Now, as I mentioned last night, things do feel more secret and whispering, like I’m about to emerge on something that the world around me wants to hint at, but no more.
Perhaps our surroundings do influence, or at least reflect, these sorts of things more than we’re consciously aware.