Where creativity lies

Even after swearing to myself that I would blog everyday, I missed yesterday. Missing blogging=missing writing. Oh, I did do something constructive, I've begun reading my book on travel writing, which is a class that I'll be taking during my study abroad trip to Tunisia. So it wasn't a completely wasted day. But I didn't get any writing done.

It was such a weird day though. I overslept, waking up at 10:30 in the morning. I sleep in that late about once a year. Once I did, I remained off schedule and felt weird the rest of the day.

Part of feeling weird the rest of the day had something to do with the fact that I've been sick with an earache. Earache=pain+dizziness. Pain is one thing. Not being able to stand up because I'm dizzy is another thing altogether. It's been going on for almost 2 weeks now. Mostly I'm better. Thank goodness, because I've got a heck of a plane ride coming up in a week. But my ear still feels weird--like I have a finger stuck in my ear pushing on my eardrum. I don't know how much more decongestant I can take and remain on planet Earth.

This blog entry will actually have to be about the writing I did day before yesterday.

I felt that day was very successful.

I got lots of pages done, completing my memoir and an exercise or two that I had to turn in for memoir class.

The scene in my memoir that I mentioned previously--the one that was too much summary and not up-close-and-personal enough--I never fixed to my satisfaction. The moment about which I was trying to write was so personal, and, let's face it, so naked (I'm not speaking figuratively here), that it was a little bit more than I could write for review by a teacher. Interesting that I think that I could write it for publication (faceless masses) but not for someone I see in person.

Just like I don't think I could post that memoir here, since my sister could possibly read it and there are moments in there I wouldn't care to share with her. (It's not about you, Beth, but let's just say I mention "the McMillan tummy.")

However, I'd like to share the following with everyone, because of what happened during the writing. I was attempting a writing exercise requesting me to write with sensory details about a place that I knew well. During the writing, I was so "into it." For me, "into it" means that I get a sensation of my brain sinking down, so that I feel like somewhere in my head, I'm wrapped in a protective blanket. Everything around me, the sounds, the smells, the motion, receded. I lived once again in the place that I was writing about, which is the living room of my stepmother's house. I wrote it as if it were last summer, before my dad passed away. When I write this way, I'm reminded of when I was in acting class, doing sense-memory exercises.

So here is the piece:

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In the Quiet

I sit in my daddy’s big leather recliner and just listen to the house. It’s not often that I’m alone here and it feels uncomfortable. The leather is cool on the back of my legs and the breeze from the fan above blows cool air on my knees and shins. I’ve always loved the feel of a softly blowing fan. It helps me relax a bit.

The dark brown paneling that wraps around the den, interrupted only by big windows and French doors, is the same as when my mother and daddy built the house. The furniture pieces-- sofa, two recliners, guest chair, and television--are in the exact same places they’ve always been, although these are my stepmother’s furniture picks, not my mom’s.

I wonder if I’ll still be coming to the house in another year’s time.

I wonder, if, after my father passes away, my stepmother will sell the house.

The quiet is not really quiet. I notice it when the air-conditioning compressor turns itself back on. Since Daddy is so sick now, the house is kept much warmer than he used to find comfortable. The air-conditioner doesn’t need to work as hard as it used to. It doesn’t cycle through as many times per hour. I hear the refridgerator hum from the laundry room. It’s older than the kitchen fridge. That’s probably why I can hear it instead of the other one.

I notice that the slightly rancid smell of cigarettes still hangs in the air, even though my stepmother has begun insisting that she and daddy go outside to smoke. I wonder if they really do, when no one is visiting, or if my stubborn father refuses. Lord, he refuses to quit smoking, even though he now must drag an oxygen tank along behind.

A multi-colored carpet has replaced the sea green one that my stepmother used to have on the floor. The sea green rug replaced the red shag that my mother had laid down. A pale leather couch replaces my mother’s tweed brown one. My mother’s guest chair has been replaced by a love-seat. I wonder if Judy would be surprised that she had nearly duplicated my mother’s furniture placement? It’s one of the things we never discuss.

I know that Judy has never loved the house like my father does. I remember when he and mom were having it built. My father remarked that this was the first and last house that he’d ever build. He planned to die here. I suppose that’s why he fought so hard for it in the divorce, and why Judy could never talk him into moving. Once he’s gone, what memories will the house hold? Will it be forever haunted by his presence? Or will that be only in my mind?

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Reading back over the above, I realize that I really wrestled with verb tenses in this short piece. Hope I corrected them all, and am not embarrassing myself here!

Have you ever tried to analyze where in your brain or body your creativity lives? I'd love it if you shared you thoughts with me.