Keeping What I Will

Rockin' the Granny Tote

I'm going to try a new thing, which is actually a old thing.

Though I finally gave up my attempts to completely read (and do) a Julia Cameron book, there was one idea in one of her many books (and I can't remember which one) that sprouted a root in my brain--the idea that it's not necessary to find a large block of time in which to write. Instead, she suggested that one look for little nuggets of time--perhaps having a breakfast, lunch and dinner type of writing times, with a few snacks thrown in for good measure.

While giving it thought, I realized that for it to work, I needed to make my writing portable. I needed to have it one place--my fountain pen, some miscellaneous pens, a couple of legal pads, a journal, and whatever notes or articles of inspiration I was using at the time--easy to get to and easy to carry.  At the same time as all this thinking, I actually stumbled over the perfect bag for me, for this purpose--a bag that's almost too much (and perhaps IS too much for some of you), a loud, in your face, painted cats and sequins bag. I quickly snatched it up.

And then lost it in the closet, forgetting all about the "little bursts of creativity."

Luckily, I have friends. Friends who often think along the same lines that I do, and read a lot of the same books as I do. Today a friend suggested that big chunks of structured time may not work, especially right now with Nathan home all day. He referred to Cameron's idea, and it all came flooding back--my initial excitement about the idea, the free feeling it gave me, and the bag. The delightful bag.

So I've dug it out of the closet, and I'm choosing what to put in it. When it's filled, I'm keeping it right out in the open--maybe on the sideboard in the dining room, or perhaps next to the couch in the living room. Somewhere prominent, where I'll see it a hundred times a day. Somewhere easily accessible, where I can grab it as I head out door. 

I'm feeling ever so optimistic.

 

Plodding Along

 

But not a bad sort of plodding--more of a meandering, comfortable, quiet journey. Doing what I need to do, but not overly fussing about it.

I learned something over the last few days--I like writing fiction on the kitchen table. It's centrally located, it's bright orange (very stimulating), it's walls are covered with the end results of Nathan's creativity, the coffee machine is at hand, and it smells good.

I sit at the table and I write...and write. Pages at time, at the table.

My room definitely has its place. (And no, I refuse to give it up.) It's wonderful for when Mark and Nathan are being loud and in my face about everything. Then it becomes my refuge, quiet, calm, and contained--everything the boys are not. But having a room of one's own doesn't mean that you always have to seclude yourself in it. It's doesn't always have to be literal--perhaps all that's needed is the mental space of one's own.

In any case, I'm enjoying this exploring of space--within and without. And I've got the pages to prove its worth.