I think fall has forgotten what it’s supposed to do in November.
But shit, I’m not complaining.
Whether it’s the weather, or perhaps a late season push of inspiration, or maybe even a thawing of my icy self-doubt by the unseasonably warm temperatures, but I’ve been in a surprisingly productive stage these past couple weeks.
I’m always afraid when this happens though. I enjoy it while it does, and I practically
spend every waking minute soaking up the extra energy and letting my fingers fly across the keys as much as possible.
It always ends though.
I’ll glare at the words I’ve written with the mindset of a critic out for blood and there will be mornings when I push myself up in bed, open the laptop with fumbling hands and blurry eyes, only to slam it closed again, popping the bubble of white, electronic light and going back to sleep for a few more hours.
It happens, and I’ve come to accept that.
I think everyone at some point wishes they were a prodigy, that they actually aren’t like everyone else, that they are smarter, equipped with better working equipment inside our head. I know I always wished I was.
So, I accept that there will be times that writing is the last thing I feel like doing, even though it is the one thing I feel like doing all the time. It’s an evil dichotomy, there are times when you feel like writing even when you don’t.
Try and write any words around that crippling irony when its locked on your brain.
Let’s move on. I’ll tell you a little about my apartment.
It’s a small bachelor flat, open, with a desk against one wall, kitchen table against another, and my bed in the corner. It has small bathroom that looks more suited for a prison than an apartment, but I make do. The heating for the apartment comes from the thick pipes running along the ceiling that provide water to the flats in the house above me.
I hate basements. I’m a slave to the sun, and love natural light. I think it’s why I get my best writing done while sitting at my parents kitchen table. Three of the walls are filled with windows, it’s a writer’s heaven.
I mention my apartment because, for the last year, I haven’t really settled into it.
Sure, my things are there, and I eat and sleep there, but I haven’t really done much there. It’s really hard to build memories when you’re alone.
But, I’ve come to the conclusion that this is not only going to be the place where I finished my first novel, but my second one as well.
I’ve also just realized something. Cue a small tangent.
It’s always said that writer’s write what they know, well, sometimes that happens without them even realizing it, or perhaps in spite of their best intentions.
Stephen King wrote The Shining, the story of an alcoholic teacher who was having trouble keeping his family together (all the while going out of it fudging mind). It was only later that King realized he was writing about himself, as he was in that exact position in life, but just hadn’t come to that realization yet. Thankfully, he didn’t go as far as Jack Torrance.
I bring this up because, I think my main problem with this apartment, and why I find it hard to work here is because of the awful memories from when I first moved in here.
It wasn’t a good time for me, emotionally, and I spent a lot of them time surrounded by boxes because I didn’t want to unpack and trying to shut out everything.
I mention this because this morning’s writing session my character was experiencing a similar situation.
Circumstances have left her with a decision of whether to stop seeing someone, save the happy memories she has, or accept that something terrible has happened and continue the relationship with the risk that the new (bad) memories could crush the old happy ones.
I guess my situation is little reversed, but I guess I know where those words came from.
Thanks for reading.