The Ecology of My Writing

The Ecology of My Writing
by *Daphne*

For a writer, is there anything more daunting than a stark white screen staring itself in your face? Less intimidating, however is a well loved, slightly beat up journal with friendly picture on the cover, maybe of dolphins jumping, or the serenity of Monet’s lilies, perhaps even with a half scratched off price tag still on the back. This is the writing tool I was always most fond of, closer to me than any intimate partner, than any love. Oh the secrets that are locked in those old journals….secrets that my mind has forgotten, and some I choose to leave behind. 16 years, and 40+ journals later locked in a trunk in the basement, I’ve begun to fantasize some day, like Anais Nin I would have the audacity bring them into a publisher, and allow the world to read my melodramas. Or even better, perhaps my yet-to-be-born offspring would have one of my greater escapades made into a movie -like those kids who discovered the confessions of their deceased mother, the one from Bridges of Madison County.

Once loving the solemnity of my inner journey, and going deep within, my introverted self in recent years volcanically erupted into a motor mouth that doesn’t know how to shut up or shut off. Talk. All I seem to do is talk. These days there has to be absolute quiet for me to meditate, let alone write even a word. Like now. No one around to bother me, except the kitten sleeping atop the printer at my desk. Also necessary: a glass of organic wine at my side (to kick in the inspiration, of course) and a fire blazing. Oh, and candles…LOTS of candles. (Atmosphere is a must). But first, the house has to be completely cleaned, dishes washed, 6 loads of laundry done, surfaces dusted, floors vacuumed, laundry folded and put away, toilets cleaned, and shit scooped out of the litter box. 7.5 hours later, here I am. Alone. Thank God. If Ross Porter’s seductive radio drone was still captivating the late night Jazz audience on the radio, he may be the only human somewhat allowed in the room. Instead I’m convinced that, if nothing else, it’s going to be the solitude of the room that will expand my capacity to reach the heights of true art, of true creativity, of mind blowing soul stirring writing that will leave the reader and myself with breathless abandon, inspiring the masses to greater heights of the human psyche! I will do this, if not tonight than at some point during the course of this class …I hope.

For now, all things in this room remain quiet, if not for the crackle of the fire nearby or the crackle of synapses popping in my head.