Talk of Raw Passion, Palpable excitement with a dance in their voice, restless mind and itchy fingers with a indelible addiction…..writing! Simply she is somewhat married to her phone, for all the power and privilege to create. Meet our feature of the week known simply known as Entirety or to our Creative Mondays family and Twitterati as @Entiretyinbits… Be inspired to create!
It’s 4 am and the room is dark, except for the dimmed light of an iPhone screen lighting up the ceiling. My family is asleep, the furnace is kicking in and out and I am up writing. This is not an uncommon scenario. It’s not the only time I write. But it is often a sacred time for me as the house is quiet. There are no demands of the house that can be met at this time, lest I wake the kids. No children demanding me to break up squabbles or to clean up from. Solely, this is my time, and I have continued to covet it as a part of my creative space.
Now it’s 7 am and the kids are rousing and I check my phone for notifications and word prompts on Twitter, to see if any spark immediate inspiration. Sometimes I rouse at this time myself with words, hovering between that sleep and awake state. This is a particularly annoying occurrence, because I am often interrupted 40 million times, and trying to keep a coherent or congruent thought is nearly impossible. This is a typical morning for me as children wrestle on my bed and I battle the constant challenge of my phone being kicked out of my hand.
Now zoom forward one and a half hours and meet bliss. The kids have gone to school and quiet enters in. No noise but any I choose. Still in bed, I often lay and write through a part of the morning. I check in with emails and texts, but predominantly either write poetry or read it. Some people start their day off reading the newspaper and coffee. I definitely start my day with coffee, but poetry is my way. When I am not allowed to start my day like this it creates a dissonance in me, not quite anxiety, but a feeling like the world is not quite right.
After a while either my stomach, dirty dishes, 29 loads of laundry or Game of Thrones is calling me out of bed. Taking my inspiration as it comes, writing more on the fly than in the morning. I have the terrible bad habit of being mid meal prep, or shoveling snow, or driving for that matter, and have an idea overwhelm me that needs to be written. So I stop. And I write. Sometimes it can be a word that strikes a chord, whether I heard it on the radio or in something I read and it resonates with me and I want to build a piece around it. Or sometimes it’s what I see in my environment; a sunset, the stars or moon.
One night I was on my way to work and I saw a prostitute on the street, and I had this picture of where she came from, what her life must be like or could be like, and I was taken to another world. I felt what her world could feel like and I wanted to write it down. Sometimes what I write comes from a memory, and the feelings of despondency or joy or struggle, I felt during that time period. When I separated from my husband of 17 years I wrote a lot about anger and sadness, but about new beginnings too.
My writing predominantly consists of poetry, but I continue to delve into vignettes and very short stories. Most of my short stories are erotic in nature and I have used these pieces as a chance to explore fantasy. It’s often harder to work with inspiration in this capacity, during the bustle of family life, as they require more concentration than a 140 character poem for Twitter. In the last month or so, I have been working on my longest piece to date. A long distance love affair between two different people, from different backgrounds who find themselves connected and desiring more. My characters have been put on hold as I battle my plan for them. Inspiration says their story should take a specific route and I have a dilemma, I don’t want the story to go in that direction. So inspiration and my head are in disagreement. But if I’m honest, inspiration almost always wins this type of disagreement.
Once 5pm rolls around the kids are home from school and my haphazard, inspired brain is undergoing the supper hour prep, with kids battling and TV blaring and I am still not done. There have been times I’ve asked my son to type my words out for me, because my hands were in raw ground beef and I felt overwhelmed to get them out before they became lost to a sea of words. Inspiration seems to be a bit of a fickle wench. She comes and goes when she pleases, shows up unexpected and if you sit and wait on her, she occasionally doesn’t show. One of the most painful things as a writer is that moment where she doesn’t show. And in an effort to force it, you write anyways. At this point my spirit feels like it hears nails on a chalk board. To force words together, just in an effort to get them out, is excruciating and it makes me cringe. The delete button gets used more frequently in many of these cases. If it doesn’t come freely as a gift from my soul it doesn’t feel right, and for someone who writes predominantly from their feelings, forcing words goes against every bone in my creative body. My emotions are real, to conjure them up, for the sake of a poem, or for a poetic back pat by my peers, is like an actor playing a character instead of being the character. And although I still have found myself doing it at times, it feels fake, and I don’t want to be that person.
Well, by this point in my day, my kitchen is still a mess from after supper, my kids and I are slowing down. Maybe a viewing or reading of Oscar Wildes “A Selfish Giant” before bed, then I lay down with my two youngest. And this is what I hear, “Mom, can I do stars and boxes?” This is code speak. They want to dole stars and retweets out on Twitter with me. So sometimes we pick a “safe” poet, or a poetry prompt from Heart Soup or Fieryverse, and peruse the work of my peers. My kids sound out the words, offer some of their own at times, and we read how others have been creative that day. This could go on for hours if I let it. But usually by this point I have come across some photo from Tumblr or Google images, that speaks to me and I want to write about it. It never stops you know? This compulsion to write. Phone in hand, at the table, in the car, at work, like a river flowing to the sea could have any more say in its flow, neither do I. I am a victim to words (and secretly, I love it). Ok it’s not much of a secret.
House a mess, kids asleep, friends visited and it’s finally 10pm or so, and I am headed to bed. I plug my phone in next to my night stand and turn the light off. I pull my goose down duvet up to my chin and roll over simultaneously. Then, I roll back over, grab my phone and write down one more thing. Because inspiration, it is an entity unto to her own and she doesn’t stop for sleep, eating, driving and any other event that goes on in day to day life. And really, it’s these events that often inspire me to some capacity. How the peace of my house feels as I drift off to sleep… That is most definitely inspiring!!
I love words. I love playing with them, noon, day and night. There is power in the array of possibilities, when joining words with emotion, and to be able to have a place to share them is a privilege. Being creative is my drug, my world to alter my reality or maybe more, extend it, into tearing up the monotony of the daily grind. Or better yet, exposing the hidden inspiration amidst the daily grind, in every day life. That most definitely covers the scope of a woman’s existence in prose.
Now, I should probably sleep. 4 am comes soon enough.
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