Inspiration Ink
I complained to my author friend that I have writer's block. He lives in Japan and we communicate primarily via email. We're writing a 100-chapter novel together and so far we have eight hilarious chapters. I have no problem meeting my weekly deadline for the collaboration project but the novel in my heart is sitting on my desktop staring at me. Every day the characters ask me questions to try and get the ball rolling. I hear their voices. Taylor: "What's my dog's name?" Phillip: "How many people am I supposed to kill?" Angie: "What do I look like?"
My friend responded to my complaint with a quote from Robert Parker: "Writer's block is just another name for laziness." I fired back an indignant reply: I am not lazy; I sit on my fat ass in this chair all day long and proofread hundreds of pages, pore through reference books and obscure websites doing exhaustive research, and at the end of the day my brain is sad and it just wants a break. The last thing I feel like doing is staying another hour or two in front of the computer trying to peck out a scene through bleary eyes.
His reply: I never said you were lazy.
I thought about it. I get my best ideas during my nightly soak in the bathtub but I can't very well take pen and paper into steamy suds. I thought about it some more. I wrote another chapter for our book while eating lunch at my desk; no problem, done, spell check, save, send.
Then I decided to take a walk. Miraculously we were blessed with one good day of mild temperatures and sunshine. I put on my new space man shoes that are supposed to firm my butt, found my favorite Pandora station on my iPod, and set out into unfamiliar sunlight. After I convinced myself it would not be cool to bust out into random dance moves to Michael Jackson I found my stride and let the music take the back seat. I walked up a very steep hill to the lighthouse, huffing and puffing, thinking I never want to walk again and a split second later thinking I should walk more often. On more even terrain, I took a trail to the back of the neighborhood and walked along the edge of the orange grove, stopping to pet every dog that passed my way.
I saw the ghost of my husband's grandmother sitting in her rocking chair on a patio, her arthritic back hunched over the afghan she was crocheting. In another house someone was baking, the warm smell of cinnamon made me want to knock on their door and become their new best friend. An old man was mowing his lawn but the dead grass didn't have that wonderful fresh rain scent. Approaching the lake I saw the sun was just beginning to think about sinking into the water. I walked out onto the dock and gratefully sat down. I removed the little ear buds from my ears and the first sound I heard was the water making that gentle lapping sound beneath the boards. The birds were talking quietly like they gathered in this place every day to witness the sunset. The air smelled clean with the faintest undertone fish.
I sat there until the blue gave way to pink and reluctantly stuck the ear buds back in my ears -- Michael gave way to Barry White -- and I headed back to the trail. On either side of the trail sat moss-covered limerocks that resembled giant misshapen skulls. Trudging uphill again, the trail led me to the back of the clubhouse. Despite the cool temperatures there were several residents in the pool. I wondered if the Yankees thought when you move to Florida there's some kind of rule that says you have to be in a bathing suit every day.
Rounding the clubhouse I stopped to give love to a few more dogs, then turned in the general direction of home. I passed a house where someone had their fireplace going; the wood smoke evoked childhood memories of camping in the forest. I walked over the little footbridge and along the smaller lake. Like most evenings, a man was sitting on the back of his golf cart with a line in the water.
The sky was really glowing now and the temperature was dropping. Barry White had given way to Marvin Gaye and I made myself not sing along as I passed an elderly lady wearing bright turquoise pants and an orange shirt that said Nehi Cola. I wondered if she's been hit in the past by one of the drunken golf cart drivers.
Home. Finally. A jealous dog sniffed every inch of me and my husband asked if I was ready for dinner. Not quite yet, I told him, and I grabbed a pen and notebook and went out onto my back porch to write in the day's dying light.
My friend responded to my complaint with a quote from Robert Parker: "Writer's block is just another name for laziness." I fired back an indignant reply: I am not lazy; I sit on my fat ass in this chair all day long and proofread hundreds of pages, pore through reference books and obscure websites doing exhaustive research, and at the end of the day my brain is sad and it just wants a break. The last thing I feel like doing is staying another hour or two in front of the computer trying to peck out a scene through bleary eyes.
His reply: I never said you were lazy.
I thought about it. I get my best ideas during my nightly soak in the bathtub but I can't very well take pen and paper into steamy suds. I thought about it some more. I wrote another chapter for our book while eating lunch at my desk; no problem, done, spell check, save, send.
Then I decided to take a walk. Miraculously we were blessed with one good day of mild temperatures and sunshine. I put on my new space man shoes that are supposed to firm my butt, found my favorite Pandora station on my iPod, and set out into unfamiliar sunlight. After I convinced myself it would not be cool to bust out into random dance moves to Michael Jackson I found my stride and let the music take the back seat. I walked up a very steep hill to the lighthouse, huffing and puffing, thinking I never want to walk again and a split second later thinking I should walk more often. On more even terrain, I took a trail to the back of the neighborhood and walked along the edge of the orange grove, stopping to pet every dog that passed my way.
I saw the ghost of my husband's grandmother sitting in her rocking chair on a patio, her arthritic back hunched over the afghan she was crocheting. In another house someone was baking, the warm smell of cinnamon made me want to knock on their door and become their new best friend. An old man was mowing his lawn but the dead grass didn't have that wonderful fresh rain scent. Approaching the lake I saw the sun was just beginning to think about sinking into the water. I walked out onto the dock and gratefully sat down. I removed the little ear buds from my ears and the first sound I heard was the water making that gentle lapping sound beneath the boards. The birds were talking quietly like they gathered in this place every day to witness the sunset. The air smelled clean with the faintest undertone fish.
I sat there until the blue gave way to pink and reluctantly stuck the ear buds back in my ears -- Michael gave way to Barry White -- and I headed back to the trail. On either side of the trail sat moss-covered limerocks that resembled giant misshapen skulls. Trudging uphill again, the trail led me to the back of the clubhouse. Despite the cool temperatures there were several residents in the pool. I wondered if the Yankees thought when you move to Florida there's some kind of rule that says you have to be in a bathing suit every day.
Rounding the clubhouse I stopped to give love to a few more dogs, then turned in the general direction of home. I passed a house where someone had their fireplace going; the wood smoke evoked childhood memories of camping in the forest. I walked over the little footbridge and along the smaller lake. Like most evenings, a man was sitting on the back of his golf cart with a line in the water.
The sky was really glowing now and the temperature was dropping. Barry White had given way to Marvin Gaye and I made myself not sing along as I passed an elderly lady wearing bright turquoise pants and an orange shirt that said Nehi Cola. I wondered if she's been hit in the past by one of the drunken golf cart drivers.
Home. Finally. A jealous dog sniffed every inch of me and my husband asked if I was ready for dinner. Not quite yet, I told him, and I grabbed a pen and notebook and went out onto my back porch to write in the day's dying light.
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