She was a writer. She had a desk in a small room and a window that looked out onto empty space and she had time. Or she made time. That was the most important thing. If she had to, she stole time, and she snuck into her room and she sat at her desk with her pen poised and a blank sheet of paper before here. And she waited.
If you’d asked her what she was waiting for, she would have had trouble explaining. She’d have said something about a rushing wind and words threaded in that wind and something about that wind moving through her. You have to turn up, she’d have told you, and you have to accept what is given to you.
So, she sat at her desk and she waited, her head cocked as though she was listening. In her room today there was a silence. Not even birds were singing and no breath of air moved and the light was unshifting and dull. She put her pen to the page and began. Sometimes you had to begin before anything happened.
‘Two women in summer clothes strode across the square. One was talking and the other was listening. It was always the way.’
She stopped to read what she’d written. Just two lines. That was usually enough. An idea formed then and all the wind-blown words in a hurry to be on the page in front of her. But today there was nothing. She tore the page into confetti pieces and dropped them at her feet. Then with a new clean page she started again.
‘It was hot, so hot that sweat put a damp hand at her back and her hair began to unwind and to frizz and Julia’s incessant talking was an irritation, her words like wasps caught in a shook jar, all spite and sting and …’
She couldn’t think of a third thing the wasp words could be, but this was better. There was something she liked in the words and the way they had arranged themselves on the page. But try as she might, she could not think of another adjective to hang on those wasp words.
She took yet another clean page and she paused and breathed deeply, as if by a bigger breath she could stir up the air and it could be a little rushing then and the gift of something moving through her thoughts.
‘She’d worn the wrong shoes and with all the walking over paved squares and the standing and staring at church walls and keeping up with Julia in a hurry, well her feet stung and she asked if they could sit somewhere.’
Again with a Julia, she thought. And again something stinging. And two women walking across squares in a city. She sat back in her chair and was not pleased with the start she had made. She tilted her head and closed her eyes and she smelled the air. It smelled of paper and ink and her own sweat and the soap that she used – always the same soap, Fleurissimo by Creed. She had it on order from Harrods. It came in a perfect nest of white tissue and in its own box.
Then a small rushing and at last there were words and she had to write fast to catch them all, and a Julia there was losing patience with a girl called Marian and the day dry as baked, and shoes that nipped, and words were waspish, all sharp and spite and sting. And couldn’t they just sit and rest and wasn’t that part of the holiday instead of hurrying form one thing to another. And so they came to the fountain of Neptune and they sat on the stone lip of the basin and they cooled their feet in the water and they laughed at the size of Neptune’s cock, a boy-cock on a strong man’s body. And julia was so close to Marian that she could smel flowers.
She got up from her desk, a little dizzy and not sure what she had written, and that was always the way when it had gone well. And the sound that was there in the room was of everything settling and a wind departing and the return of quiet.
I had trouble with this one, too. I spent a lot of time thinking about Venice and Santa Croce and what they did with the sewage. That got me nowhere–I like your solution, which was like cooling one’s feet in a fountain. Thanks.
Judith – I think maybe you make the mistake of thinking I am a character in the piece I have written. I sat in my bed to write this and not at a desk. And I don’t really believe in the rushing wind theory of inspiration. Unlike the writer in the piece, I had no trouble with the writing of this, it was all just invention and playing enough that it held my interest. That’s all it ever is. I shall pop over and read yours now…
July 7, 2013: She smelled it in the air.
http://judithlindenau.wordpress.com/2013/07/07/july-7-2013-she-smelled-it-in-the-air/
She was a writer. She had a desk in a small room and a window that looked out onto empty space and she had time. Or she made time. That was the most important thing. If she had to, she stole time, and she snuck into her room and she sat at her desk with her pen poised and a blank sheet of paper before here. And she waited.
If you’d asked her what she was waiting for, she would have had trouble explaining. She’d have said something about a rushing wind and words threaded in that wind and something about that wind moving through her. You have to turn up, she’d have told you, and you have to accept what is given to you.
So, she sat at her desk and she waited, her head cocked as though she was listening. In her room today there was a silence. Not even birds were singing and no breath of air moved and the light was unshifting and dull. She put her pen to the page and began. Sometimes you had to begin before anything happened.
‘Two women in summer clothes strode across the square. One was talking and the other was listening. It was always the way.’
She stopped to read what she’d written. Just two lines. That was usually enough. An idea formed then and all the wind-blown words in a hurry to be on the page in front of her. But today there was nothing. She tore the page into confetti pieces and dropped them at her feet. Then with a new clean page she started again.
‘It was hot, so hot that sweat put a damp hand at her back and her hair began to unwind and to frizz and Julia’s incessant talking was an irritation, her words like wasps caught in a shook jar, all spite and sting and …’
She couldn’t think of a third thing the wasp words could be, but this was better. There was something she liked in the words and the way they had arranged themselves on the page. But try as she might, she could not think of another adjective to hang on those wasp words.
She took yet another clean page and she paused and breathed deeply, as if by a bigger breath she could stir up the air and it could be a little rushing then and the gift of something moving through her thoughts.
‘She’d worn the wrong shoes and with all the walking over paved squares and the standing and staring at church walls and keeping up with Julia in a hurry, well her feet stung and she asked if they could sit somewhere.’
Again with a Julia, she thought. And again something stinging. And two women walking across squares in a city. She sat back in her chair and was not pleased with the start she had made. She tilted her head and closed her eyes and she smelled the air. It smelled of paper and ink and her own sweat and the soap that she used – always the same soap, Fleurissimo by Creed. She had it on order from Harrods. It came in a perfect nest of white tissue and in its own box.
Then a small rushing and at last there were words and she had to write fast to catch them all, and a Julia there was losing patience with a girl called Marian and the day dry as baked, and shoes that nipped, and words were waspish, all sharp and spite and sting. And couldn’t they just sit and rest and wasn’t that part of the holiday instead of hurrying form one thing to another. And so they came to the fountain of Neptune and they sat on the stone lip of the basin and they cooled their feet in the water and they laughed at the size of Neptune’s cock, a boy-cock on a strong man’s body. And julia was so close to Marian that she could smel flowers.
She got up from her desk, a little dizzy and not sure what she had written, and that was always the way when it had gone well. And the sound that was there in the room was of everything settling and a wind departing and the return of quiet.
I had trouble with this one, too. I spent a lot of time thinking about Venice and Santa Croce and what they did with the sewage. That got me nowhere–I like your solution, which was like cooling one’s feet in a fountain. Thanks.
Judith – I think maybe you make the mistake of thinking I am a character in the piece I have written. I sat in my bed to write this and not at a desk. And I don’t really believe in the rushing wind theory of inspiration. Unlike the writer in the piece, I had no trouble with the writing of this, it was all just invention and playing enough that it held my interest. That’s all it ever is. I shall pop over and read yours now…