Sitting, waiting, drinking wine.

Shake it out. Seriously: Shake – it – out…

I’m sitting here, a glass of wine in my right hand (because it usually helps me to talk a lot more than I normally would and maybe, the same goes for writing?), waiting for inspiration to strike me – like lightning, or at least, like a tiny spark.

I’m sitting here, fairly uninspired.

Last night, I did manage to get a start on what bears the potential to become a fully-grown and respectable story. And yet. It already has a fair amount of brothers and sisters huddled in drawers, crouched together in notebooks, sitting and waiting in long-forgotten files on my laptop: none of them ever made it past the literary toddler-stage.

There must be something in the air that constantly stunts their growth – maybe the occasional incense I light, or maybe there’s asbestos within the walls of my apartment, or maybe an old case of writer’s block, drawn-out.

Still, I’m sitting here, fairly uninspired.

Story Beginning, Pt. I:

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

It was early, merely dawn. The sun hadn’t had its morning coffee yet and was stumbling across the sky, still half-asleep. Much like her.

She didn’t even know what time it was. She had been awake for hours, flipping through pages, pages and pages. Running her fingers over every single word, every single letter in the book. Breathing them.

She’d taken them all in, had almost choked on them. It was his handwriting.

Now, she knew all of it by heart. And yet. She just really wanted to know him. Understand him. Understand it all.

March 23, 2012 in the upper right corner. Then: Mary. Then: Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary  Mary  Mary  Mary Mary Mary Marymarymarymarymary.

Then: Nothing.

Because there wasn’t another day, not for him.

I’m sitting here, a glass of wine in my right hand (three or four sips emptier than before), waiting. Maybe not even for inspiration. Maybe, I’m just waiting.

I’m waiting, inspiration?

I opened a window to air out the past days’ heat that’s collected in the small room, gotten stale; some of the past days’ memories that have collected in the window curtains like cigarette smoke (I am sorry; Don’t apologize; I am truly sorry; I know; I am sorry things are so complicated; So am I…).

I’m waiting, inspiration?

Story Beginning, Pt. II

“Why is the sky so big?” His question came out of nowhere, like always.

A minute ago he had been busy biting off the crust of his peanut butter sandwich. Now, he was looking at her through his thick-framed glasses (the ones she didn’t want to buy him because they made him look uncomfortably grown-up – but he had insisted).

She tried to think of an answer that would make sense to him, like always.

Usually, she couldn’t come up with anything that seemed reasonable enough to him. Scientific enough. Once, she had tried to put on her favorite high school teacher’s tone – simply to sound scientific. She really tried. She wanted to explain the world to him. Yet mostly, she couldn’t. She knew that. Mostly, the world was too complicated for her to understand, let alone explain it to anyone else. One day, she hoped, he would be the one to explain things to her.

“Or do you think we are just so small?” He was still looking at her. Crumbles of toast and smears of peanut butter stuck to his mouth and tiny fingers.

“That’s probably it, Coop” she said. She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

Still, I’m sitting here, fairly uninspired.

I’m waiting, inspiration?

Still, I’m waiting, fairly uninspired.

I’m sitting here, inspiration?

Still, inspiration?

Story Beginning, Pt. III

She’s standing at the edge, bent forward a little. Her thin, white dress is fluttering in the wind: one moment it rests calmly on her legs, like a second skin almost, entirely covering the pink scar on her left knee; the next moment it shoots up into the sky, maybe wanting to cover up other scars (ones that are not pink but black or some dark shade of blue or purple); scars that lie way beyond her left knee, beyond anything really.

She’s standing at the edge, bent backwards a little. Her smooth, brown hair is fluttering in the wind: curls are flying through the air, like migrating birds – always headed South, South, and further South…

She’s squatting. Her hands feel their way along the two ropes they’ve been gripping tightly for the past several minutes (maybe hours). She’s sweating. It’s October, but unusually hot – the summer has melted in its own heat and oozed into the cracks of fall, sweet and sticky, like syrup (maple).

The swing creaks as she’s moving: backwards, forwards; forwards, backwards.

I’m sitting here, a glass of wine in my right hand (it doesn’t help to loosen my tongue, it just make it numb, which is just as good, at least for tonight), waiting. I’m here she says, I’ve been here all alongyou just didn’t want to see me, her voice sounds unusually high, accusingly. I know, I do know. I try to reassure here. I’ve been here all along (a pair of eyes; grey, almost blue). You just didn’t want to see me (I couldn’t bear it; I already feel you all the time — I can’t feel any more).

I’m sitting here, not waiting but wondering. I wonder, now that inspiration has found me, what I am going to do with it.

We always claim that it is inspiration we need. And yet. Inspiration is not like an invisible friend that whispers stories into your ear and keeps your nights from being too lonely, too dark. Sometimes, it’s an invisible friend that pushes you into the lonely darkness (a pair of eyes; grey, almost blue), makes you dive in deep in order to find the stories that are hiding at the very bottom of it.

I’m sitting here, slowly finishing my wine. I’m here she says, I’ve been here all along.

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8 responses

  1. (Miles away, here I am mirroring you with a cup of tea and a head full of ideas that I can’t seem to put into words just yet. I hate when that happens, I feel ripe to burst with all those feelings, but they just won’t come out, they just fold up smaller and smaller like membranes until there’s nothing left of them but a few cold, hard pits. Why won’t the words come?)

    I love and miss you. Wish we could talk right now, over cupcakes and sodas. Or just play inspiration ping pong and exchange ideas.

    1. I’ve quoted this before, but here you go: Every writer I know has trouble writing. ~ Joseph Heller

      Sometimes it seems to many emotions, ideas, images are blocking the way for words to come out…it’s just as useless as being void of – anything.

      I love and miss you just as much. We should play inspiration ping pong and exchange ideas soon, though.

      1. Yeah, but do you have to be alternating between OMG THIS WRITE THIS NO WAIT WRITE THAT NO NO I KNOW LISTEN THIS IS EVEN BETTER and GREAT BIG YAWNING VOID DOESN’T CARE YOU WANT TO WRITE all the time? I’d like to just be on the middle ground every once in a while! 😦

        We could, umm… talk on Facebook maybe? If you haven’t finished your wine and are on your way out the door to some mega cool event by now, that is. Haha. I’m so lame…

      2. Yeah, I know…haha, well, I’ve finished my wine and I’m on the way to bed…guess, who’s really lame? 🙂

      3. Oh well, that’s ok then, I can go to bed too. We can be lame together! Sweet dreams honey, and a better day tomorrow…

      4. Let’s talk/write some other time, though! Sweet dreams and a good night to you, too! ❤

  2. This, by the way. So much love!

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