Warm-up

I'm writing this as my warm-up to actual writing... hopefully it doesn't turn out to be too self-indulgent! But I want to get my fingers moving, and I am actually going to talk about writing and books and... sort of a follow-up to this week's Things I Love Thursday.

So here we are, or more to the point, here I am. On a couch, alone. There are two cats here with me, but they have claimed the chairs and left me to sprawl my giant human body on the love seat. Ha! Love seat. I love it here.

I'm far out in the country-side, and that's pretty far out, man.

Not a few moments ago, I was in the kitchen, getting my purse on, ready to head out the door. I would have driven to the city, stopped at my apartment, changed into a sparkly purple dress that rarely sees the light of day. Then I would have walked to the light rail, then ridden into Minneapolis for the all-night street and dance party for Prince.

I don't know why I would have done all that. I felt oddly compelled. But I couldn't figure out the reasons.

I started to get confused. What was my motivation? It wasn't to see anyone, I was going alone, telling no-one. I don't especially like crowds and dance parties, although I have enjoyed them in the past, going is always a gamble. I have to work very early tomorrow morning. It will take at least an hour to get to the venue. And, I'm sorry, Prince, but I wasn't the world's biggest fan. Of course I like you and your music, but I wasn't an especial fan. I am just an ordinary enjoyer of your music.

So, still confused, I took off my purse and left it on the floor. I stayed home.

What is this compulsion? I've been feeling it all afternoon, in that space of hearing of the death of a creative and wild person. I want my life to be vital and meaningful, even in a small way.

I think it's the compulsion to create.

My art supplies are at my apartment. My music is there too, and pianos are out of my reach at the moment. I can draw anywhere. I can write anywhere.

I can write here. I can write right now. I can write those things that I wrote two years ago, when I wrote 124 pages of rubbish, and 15 pages of gold. I guess how that's how long it takes to really warm up.

Lately, I picked up The Writer's Tale, which is a book that you'll hear me bang on about with glee, if you just wait around long enough. (I told you there was going to be a bit about books in this entry!) It may seem silly at this juncture, but although I'm not a writer in my blood, I'm inspired to write from time to time. I always thought that writers have a story inside them that is clawing to get out, but maybe that's not the case.

We have characters. And I do have a story, it's the story that I write for myself. I narrate my own life in my head, I have imaginary conversations and construct situations and events that may or may not come to pass... some of them my ideal happy ending, some of them horrifying and dramatic. Almost none of them come to pass, and I think sometimes I get so caught up in what I imagine should happen that I forget to give reality a chance... or I try to live life according to my imaginary script. You can guess how well that goes, I think.

The compulsion to do something, make all this exist somewhere other than inside my head.

Well, I think that's enough. Off I go.