bitemetechie (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bitemetechie) wrote,@ 2008-10-05 09:08:00 |
 |
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Old.
The author sat staring into space at nothing in particular.
Anyone who is a creative entity by any stretch knows that into space and nothing in particular are absolutely the best things to stare at when one is thinking thoughts that aren’t as solid as they should be. Into space and nothing in particular make no demands that you force your strings of thought to bind together into coherent order the way a peer would; into space and nothing in particular sit patiently by, the way a good friend ought to when you’re busy thinking, silent and supportive, waiting without pressing.
The author had been stagnating with her writing, there was no denying it. She had done everything in her power to avoid her muse the way one tried to avoid the repeated calls of an overly enthusiastic guy you went out on one date with and didn’t like after such close observation.
Just like the first and last date you never want to hear from again, the muse refused to be ignored. Unlike the first and last date you never want to hear from again, there is no machine to take the muse’s messages that will allow you to ignore him, hit the ‘erase’ button and pretend it all never happened. The muse is not so easily dismissed and he lives in a corner of the mind which demands attention so loudly that nothing short of death will silence it.
The avoidance came out of frustration with writer’s block. The author had despised the fact that she was unable to fulfill her one true purpose for so long and now that the muse had finally come knocking after ignoring her desperate calls for inspiration, she was determined to ruthlessly ignore him back.
The only problem was, she had set into motion the very events that had led up to his reawakening and she knew it.
It had been innocuous enough at the time; usually the very first snowflake that starts the ball rolling downhill seems innocuous enough when it falls, and darting down the school supply aisle at the grocery store to save time in getting out the door seemed harmless.
Until her eyes hung against her will on the cover of a large journal. She didn’t make a conscious decision to glance at it, her eyes, of their own volition, sought out the book and stuck there, leaving her standing in the middle of the aisle, her destination and haste to get to it completely forgotten.
It was a travel journal. Or at least that was its cover theme. It could have been used for any purpose, she supposed, but she knew if she’d bought it, it would have had to become a travel journal--which would demand that she travel somewhere so she’d have something to write in it.
She didn’t buy it for this reason, though she could have afforded it. She just didn’t have anywhere to go.
Still she crossed the aisle and picked up the book, thumbing through its blank pages and testing its weight, finding that she liked its bulk quite a bit. A large empty journal held so much promise. It was practically a blank novel just crying out for its pages to be filled.
She put it back.
She put it back and ignored that tell-tale itch in her fingers.
She ignored the dialogue that plunked itself neatly into her head that night and ignored the scenes writing themselves when she washed her hair the next morning.
And now she stared off into space at nothing in particular twenty four hours after coming in contact with the blank book, the itch still present and insistent but with ideas to back it up.
Yet she stubbornly refused to pick up a pen and scribble, even as she felt herself hit that groove that would see to it that she wrote faster and more efficiently than she ever had before if she’d just pick up a writing implement and use it.
Into space and nothing in particular eventually shifted themselves as the real world emerged and she stopped looking through the wall and instead looked at the wall.
Her eyes slid with a will of their own, the way they had the night before when they hit that journal, and moved around the room. The wall became the corner of the desk. The corner of the desk became the center of the desk. The center of the desk gave way to the notebook tucked upright between two pencil cups, one empty and one full.
The itch intensified and somehow evolved into movement, jettisoning her from her comfortable place on her bed and making her reach for the notebook and a pen.
Empty pages became full ones. Two ink pens were drained of their contents. The itch subsided.
And the muse was content to have won.
The author sat staring into space at nothing in particular.
Anyone who is a creative entity by any stretch knows that into space and nothing in particular are absolutely the best things to stare at when one is thinking thoughts that aren’t as solid as they should be. Into space and nothing in particular make no demands that you force your strings of thought to bind together into coherent order the way a peer would; into space and nothing in particular sit patiently by, the way a good friend ought to when you’re busy thinking, silent and supportive, waiting without pressing.
The author had been stagnating with her writing, there was no denying it. She had done everything in her power to avoid her muse the way one tried to avoid the repeated calls of an overly enthusiastic guy you went out on one date with and didn’t like after such close observation.
Just like the first and last date you never want to hear from again, the muse refused to be ignored. Unlike the first and last date you never want to hear from again, there is no machine to take the muse’s messages that will allow you to ignore him, hit the ‘erase’ button and pretend it all never happened. The muse is not so easily dismissed and he lives in a corner of the mind which demands attention so loudly that nothing short of death will silence it.
The avoidance came out of frustration with writer’s block. The author had despised the fact that she was unable to fulfill her one true purpose for so long and now that the muse had finally come knocking after ignoring her desperate calls for inspiration, she was determined to ruthlessly ignore him back.
The only problem was, she had set into motion the very events that had led up to his reawakening and she knew it.
It had been innocuous enough at the time; usually the very first snowflake that starts the ball rolling downhill seems innocuous enough when it falls, and darting down the school supply aisle at the grocery store to save time in getting out the door seemed harmless.
Until her eyes hung against her will on the cover of a large journal. She didn’t make a conscious decision to glance at it, her eyes, of their own volition, sought out the book and stuck there, leaving her standing in the middle of the aisle, her destination and haste to get to it completely forgotten.
It was a travel journal. Or at least that was its cover theme. It could have been used for any purpose, she supposed, but she knew if she’d bought it, it would have had to become a travel journal--which would demand that she travel somewhere so she’d have something to write in it.
She didn’t buy it for this reason, though she could have afforded it. She just didn’t have anywhere to go.
Still she crossed the aisle and picked up the book, thumbing through its blank pages and testing its weight, finding that she liked its bulk quite a bit. A large empty journal held so much promise. It was practically a blank novel just crying out for its pages to be filled.
She put it back.
She put it back and ignored that tell-tale itch in her fingers.
She ignored the dialogue that plunked itself neatly into her head that night and ignored the scenes writing themselves when she washed her hair the next morning.
And now she stared off into space at nothing in particular twenty four hours after coming in contact with the blank book, the itch still present and insistent but with ideas to back it up.
Yet she stubbornly refused to pick up a pen and scribble, even as she felt herself hit that groove that would see to it that she wrote faster and more efficiently than she ever had before if she’d just pick up a writing implement and use it.
Into space and nothing in particular eventually shifted themselves as the real world emerged and she stopped looking through the wall and instead looked at the wall.
Her eyes slid with a will of their own, the way they had the night before when they hit that journal, and moved around the room. The wall became the corner of the desk. The corner of the desk became the center of the desk. The center of the desk gave way to the notebook tucked upright between two pencil cups, one empty and one full.
The itch intensified and somehow evolved into movement, jettisoning her from her comfortable place on her bed and making her reach for the notebook and a pen.
Empty pages became full ones. Two ink pens were drained of their contents. The itch subsided.
And the muse was content to have won.