Week Two.

I've been rather amiss with my course this week. Finding it very hard to get a wiggle on, as my concentration is all over the place. I've been trying to catch up this morning. I'm not greatly happy with either of these as yet but, it's been a few days and I feel the need to post something.


My friends don’t call it my ‘womb’ for no good reason. It’s red. Very red. What can I say? I find it stimulating and, beyond that, it’s mine. I flat-share. It’s not ideal but the rent is cheap and that in itself gives me more time to spend writing. Something in me changes when I pass through the bland magnolia living room, take a turn down the even blander magnolia hall and enter. I can feel neurons firing. The PC is never off, just a quick wireless mouse click and the 32 inch flat screen flashes up the image of my project folder, just as I’d left it, one document taking up the centre pane. An interrupted sentence trailing off with an ellipse immediately grabs my attention. I hold it in my head as I cross to the other side of the room, where the kettle sits. Two scoops of Mt.Kilimanjaro in the French press and a flick of a switch later, I’m reading back a paragraph. I remember now what it was I was trying to impart. Steaming coffee beside me, I sit cross legged on my bed with my keyboard slung across my lap, mouse to hand. Ugh. Those last few lines, I’d been trying to evoke a mood of place and time but failed miserably. Tiredness had clearly caught up with me. I get up again, light a few candles and kill the centre bulb. My room comes alive, flickering, breathing. Better. Now something olfactory, some incense, perhaps? Sunset. That should do the trick. The quietness is nearly deafening. I need a quick burst of music; something organic, suggestive of warm breezes and dry earth, spices and silks, something… medieval Middle Eastern? I go to my music folder and choose a fitting piece and sit, eyes closed for the duration, letting my mind soak up the beats and tones, feeling the warmth on my skin just before the sun sinks below the horizon line, its delicate blush accenting ornately carved dhows berthed in the harbour. The warm wind gently sandblasts my cheek, while spices from stalls selling spit roasted lamb and other local delicacies assault my nostrils and make my mouth water. My fingers reach for the keys.


And the second:


I couldn’t resist a peek over his shoulder as I returned from the Ladies. Any time I see someone writing, curiosity nearly overcomes me. I suppose it’s a bit like my interest in other peoples sex lives, or taste in food, or how they rear their kids—every detail imparts more than at first meets the eye. Judging by his sober dress, I’d taken him to be an office worker, an accountant, something along those lines. I might have been right about that but, rather than showing a spreadsheet, the laptop screen was displaying a word processor doc, titled: Chapter Twenty Three - Come Hell or High Water. Accountant, or not, that man was a budding novelist. From my seat by the window, I slurped the foam off my cappuchino and watched as his fingertips danced across the keyboard. He appeared to be watching the beardy barrista like a hawk. How could he even hear himself think over all the chatter, clinking of cups, whooshes of steam and crunching of amaretti? My thoughts that direction were cut short as I realised he’d turned his attention on me. His smile grew ever wider as my cheeks burned red. He pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and started scribbling. An audible change of pace came as Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi, belted out from the wall mounted speaker. Jeez, if I was listening to that while trying to write, my characters would all end up talking in broad Brooklyn accents in the middle of the Dark Ages. A sound of crunching metal, nearly caused me whiplash as I triangulated the source. Outside was a flurry of activity, as one driver cast aspersions on the parenthood of another, steam leaking from underneath a crumpled bonnet. A gentle tap on the table drew me back inside, my accountant all packed up and ready for the off. He sat a small lined notebook page face down on the table and strode off, no doubt to wring every last detail out of the fender bender. I flipped it over as he vanished into the amassing crowd:

Her eyes take on a look of curiosity, interrogation of my method. She sees the common ground, the delight in detail, cheeks rouged with her embarrassment as I turn my discerning eye on her. Can I see into her very soul? Is that why I’m smiling, or is it because she’s so busy watching me, she fails to realise that she’s wearing a foam moustache. Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.


And... as a late addition before I knock off and treat myself to some grub:


You like the bustle of the coffeehouse. How can you concentrate with the clinking of cups, whooshing of steam, and crunching of Amaretti punctuating every thought? A great place to people-watch, no doubt, but in terms of splendid isolation it leaves a lot to be desired. But then again, you can't understand how I can lock myself in my room, away from the world, from inspiration, as you see it. I guess we're inspired by different things. You suck up ambiance like a sponge and use it to your advantage. Me, I need to create it, to put myself in a particular frame of mind, or time, or place, by stimulating sight, sound, and smell on demand. Most of all, I need no distractions. I mean, c'mon, I'm hardly going to be able to authentically describe a medieval market place while listening to Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi, am I? Try describing an elegant banquet while watching Ms. Lawyer To Be at the next table, ravishing an apple Danish, or while Mr. Accountant across the way squirts American mustard in wiggly lines across the pastrami and pickle of his lunchtime sub. How about the smell of Chanel No.5 while sniffing a rag soaked in petrol? Oh... you can, can you? Must be just me, then.