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This afternoon I did something I haven't done in I-don't-know-how-many-months. I sat down with a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook and a fine point Bic "better ballpoint" pen, and I started writing down a story that's been haunting me for weeks.
I'd been avoiding this one. It's utterly non-PC; I wasn't sure how it could resolve itself in a satisfying way, and I was sure the background/lead-in would take far too long to write. But this afternoon I realized that I wasn't going to be able to work with any other creative project unless I got this out of my system.
So I sat down at my dinner table with the aforementioned notebook and pen, and started writing.
The first couple of paragraphs were hard. It's been so long since I've written a story, much less one of this type, that I was almost shy of myself. But once I got over that initial discomfort, got the pump primed, everything started flowing.
I honestly don't know how long I sat there with the words simply streaming through the pen onto the page. I paused once or twice to make sure I knew where I was going, or to reconsider a word, but I didn't let myself get bogged down. (Hooray for the lessons of "morning pages"!)
My phone beeped me at 2pm, telling me I had a little less than an hour before I had to get ready to go to an appointment. I hit the one-hour snooze -- but it never came back on. The next time I looked at the clock, it was 3:02 and I had less than an hour to shower, get dressed, and get to where I was going. The time had passed without me noticing at all. I stopped only because I'd reached the point in the narrative where I could stop. (Finally page tally was 15 - counting each side as one.)
It was a marvelous feeling. A feeling I haven't been able to enjoy in a very long time.
What I wrote wasn't great literature. Heck, it wasn't even great erotica. But it was what was inside me, what needed to come out. Having the time and the solitude to get it all out in one long whoosh was deeply nurturing.
I'd been avoiding this one. It's utterly non-PC; I wasn't sure how it could resolve itself in a satisfying way, and I was sure the background/lead-in would take far too long to write. But this afternoon I realized that I wasn't going to be able to work with any other creative project unless I got this out of my system.
So I sat down at my dinner table with the aforementioned notebook and pen, and started writing.
The first couple of paragraphs were hard. It's been so long since I've written a story, much less one of this type, that I was almost shy of myself. But once I got over that initial discomfort, got the pump primed, everything started flowing.
I honestly don't know how long I sat there with the words simply streaming through the pen onto the page. I paused once or twice to make sure I knew where I was going, or to reconsider a word, but I didn't let myself get bogged down. (Hooray for the lessons of "morning pages"!)
My phone beeped me at 2pm, telling me I had a little less than an hour before I had to get ready to go to an appointment. I hit the one-hour snooze -- but it never came back on. The next time I looked at the clock, it was 3:02 and I had less than an hour to shower, get dressed, and get to where I was going. The time had passed without me noticing at all. I stopped only because I'd reached the point in the narrative where I could stop. (Finally page tally was 15 - counting each side as one.)
It was a marvelous feeling. A feeling I haven't been able to enjoy in a very long time.
What I wrote wasn't great literature. Heck, it wasn't even great erotica. But it was what was inside me, what needed to come out. Having the time and the solitude to get it all out in one long whoosh was deeply nurturing.
