I’m discovering my imagination again. Sitting here this morning, creating something new, something unexpected, unplanned. I’d forgotten how vivid I can see things, how quickly I can make up whole new worlds and people. So much of my writing this last while has come from the past, my past, not all of it true of course, but I’ve tended to use memory as the jumping off point, to work through my life issues by writing it out of me.
This morning I wanted to write, but I didn’t want to look backward or inward. I didn’t want to be serious or morose. I didn’t want to frighten myself or embroil my subconscious in conflict. I longed for something . . . refreshing. Light. So I put my fingers to the keyboard and jumped in, a blank slate, no personal experience, no memory. And quite by surprise, without any hesitation whatsoever, I started writing a letter. A letter from a sister to her brother. A letter describing a new life, new people, a new home, a party to attend that evening. And I got excited. I googled for pictures of her house and fell in love with designing it. I closed my eyes and stood on the porch outside the party where she is to be guest of honour. I listened to the music and eavesdropped on the conversations. So much fun! Where did she come from? Who is this girl? What will happen at this party? Who is that man standing over there? Does she see him looking at her? Will he ask her to dance?
I had forgotten how much I enjoy writing about parties. I had forgotten the exhilaration of imagination. The joy in creating something brand new out of nothing. I don’t do this kind of playful exploratory type writing nearly enough. It’s been much too long I think.
Listening To: a vacuum upstairs
Hair: secured in a white speckled royal blue elastic headband