Deck Dwellers

Two excerpts from my 2006 Nano attempt. Though each comes from a different scene, to me they are quite related. A particularly upsetting nightmare made me drop this thing like a hot potato. I pasted the nightmare in at the bottom of this entry. I don't want to pick up this story, but I might be keeping some aspects of the character for the new work. I'm not sure yet. I'm still kind of mulling things over and keeping my eye on the wounded dragon that still writhes on my deck. You see, the dragon came out of my 'writing office', the inner space I wrote of in the last post. That's how it came to be on my deck. That's what I risk when I go in there. I might bring something out with me when I leave. Then I can't get back in until I go all Rambo on the thing. It can happen with any creative endeavor. At least for me. Sucks, that. At least with this piece, I became aware that something was trying to come out of there with me (that's why I dumped it). With previous works, I was not aware until the dragon was out and stalking me, and that was... really, really not good. Not good at all. Ah, well...

Here are the excerpts:

The natural, minimally enhanced lighting was what drew her. The diffusing white sheers in the generous, south-facing window, the barely-there shade of icy blue matte on the walls, and the neutral foundation of the sisal rug made for the perfect lighting conditions by which to paint.

She stood in front of the window for a moment and looked out over the street. This window was especially important to her work. As her subject matter was often dark, she appreciated being able to occasionally look outside. She also liked to open the window just a crack, even in the sweltering heat. It never seemed to have a noticeable impact on the temperature in the room. Just a tiny crack was all that was needed for her keen ears to pick up the sounds of the neighborhood. She needed those sounds. They kept her grounded. They were the rope that pulled her back into the world.

##

Lamar snored softly, Jenny slept the sleep of the innocent, Abigail prayed to her god, and Reggie got back out of bed and took a sleeping pill. She shuffled back out into the living room. She pulled the rocker over to the picture window and sat watching the street while she waited to grow sleepy.

She thought about her unfinished work, 'The Dawning'. Much like the majority of her work, it was a surreal piece of canvas, to be sure. At first she had been puzzled by the predominance of the greens and blues, and how very dark they became as she worked. This was before she realized that 'The Dawning' in no way depicted the sunrise she so desperately sought when she had returned to her craft. No, this piece captured the sick and horrifying dawning of secret knowledge. The knowledge that had been dragged out into the light of day and paraded before her in all of its ugliness. There had been terrible days, weeks and months to follow. She had lived through those times and now she found herself back at yet another dawning that splayed hues of puke-green light across the canvas of her life. She startled when a low sob escaped her and caught her unaware, and that only made her cry harder.

(The second to last sentence has been consciously edited to reflect my present reality with a bit more clarity. The rest of the writing in these excerpts appear as they were orignally written.)



##



This is the nightmare that killed my story (before I had an arsenal in my head).

November 2, 2006

My father was still alive and I was living with him. I found a strange looking sponge in the kitchen. It was shaped and colored just like a cat. It was large to be a sponge, and it really did look a lot like a cat, but I thought it was just a sponge. I was using it to wipe down the counter tops. It wasn't getting things very clean and I realized that part of the problem was that the 'sponge' didn't have enough water on it. I filled one side of the kitchen sink with water and when I submerged the cat-shaped sponge, well... it leaped to life! It was not a sponge, but a (formerly dead or dehydrated?) real cat. I felt a little bad about trying to use a cat as a sponge. I checked the cat over to see that it was okay and it jumped down off the counter top. I felt glad for the poor little thing that it was alive. When my father saw this, he became very angry. He spoke to me very harshly, not quite yelling, but he was seriously pissed off and maybe a little worried and/or afraid. He told me that I should not have done that, that it was dangerous to bring things back from the dead. He said that it could bite or scratch me and that it might be carrying disease. Well, that made me watch the cat more closely. I did notice that it had sharp teeth and I noticed it was acting a little funny, as if unsteady on its feet or disoriented. I figured it was like that because of the ordeal it had just been through and not because anything was wrong with it, but still, a doubtful fear had taken root in me about my safety around that cat.



Cat = stories
Cat = unconscious
Cat = the past
Cat = inner space
Cat = ME

##

Sometimes 'writer's block' is a little bit complicated.

Inner Space

I have been silently hopping around to various writer's blogs recently. I noticed that many writers write about the physical environment in which they create. Most environments seem important to the writer, and most are favorite offices, nooks, desks, chairs, etc. This makes perfect sense to me. I like an environment that feels comfortable, and my physical surroundings are generally very important to me. So, with this realization, I have attempted at various times, to create a writing space for myself. Though I am quite skilled at creating pleasing and nourishing indoor environments, I have not been successful in creating a writing space.

My first official attempt was taking up a spot at the kitchen table. I have also tried my desk, a private corner of my bedroom, an assigned place in the back of the living room, and various other places I carved out of my home from time to time. None of these spaces stuck with me. The majority of my fiction has been written on a laptop while flopped on the couch in an environment which was usually a bit noisy. I realize now, that I already have a special writing environment, it's just not physical. It is an inner space where outside factors cannot intrude.

This realization is very important to me. I often use the metaphor of 'clearing the deck' to describe the breaks I used to take from writing when I had to get caught up on any chores. I see now, that my 'deck' is also, for the most part, an inner space. At least my current deck is. For months now, I have had the goal of clearing the deck by clearing my to-do list, but today's revelation has made me see that my deck, like my writing space, is located in here. It's on the inside. The deck is the hallway that leads to my inner writing space. I wish the obstacles on my deck were as simple as laundry, cluttered closets and procrastinated errands. They're not.

My writing comes mostly from my unconscious mind. I am not big on plotting. Of course, just about everyone plots to some extent, but I do not work from an outline. Usually, something just drops into my head and I start writing. Before long, I at least have a vague ending that becomes mostly conscious, and I might have some half-formed idea for a point or two along the way to guide me there, but that's it. That's all. Everything else writes itself. It still confounds me that I end up with a coherent and interesting story at the end. The human mind is amazing. The stories are already there, waiting for me in my inner space. I just have to make my way down the deck and walk through that door. That has been a problem. My deck cannot be cleared with mops. Nope. Here there be monsters. I have to clear my deck the hard way. With hand-to-hand combat and some help from various (mental) firearms.

My back is still slightly out of whack (literally), but I killed a dragon today. At least I think it's dead. During the next couple of weeks, I will have plenty of occasion to run over there and kick it, just to be sure. If nothing else, I KNOW it's not just sleeping; if it's not dead, it is very seriously wounded and it knows beyond a doubt who's in charge around here.