Closing my eyes I can feel exhaustion from this morning wash over me, the dim light is perfect enough for sleeping. There is no real sound appart from the tapping of my keys and the quiet hum of my laptop as the battery approaches 28%. I think, perhaps I should move laying back on my oversized pillow to my desk and plug it in. The thought lingers for only a moment before I glance at my desk. The wooden upright chair and empty blue surface looks as unappealing as ever.
A bird chirps outside of my window. My gaze shifts towards my clock. I can hardly make out the numbers it displays. Squinting, I realize my blatant stupidity, smirking at my own mistake. 1:58PM, according to my computer.
Napping sounded like a pleasant idea. I’d grabbed my paperback copy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in hopes of sitting back and reading it to relax for a bit. However, my computer and camera were in much too close of a range for that to be possible. I continued to reach for my camera and photograph the page. The soft light from the outside makes almost a perfect light. I am tempted to toy with the idea of turning my room into a photo- studio and return my gaze to my computer. Another unfinished blogpost unattended to. I sigh for lack of better thoughts. How many of these are there going to be?
Opening a new tab I scrolled through the four draft-posts I’d created since my last post. Twice on Saturday, once, yesterday.. once earlier today.. now, today. My post earlier was to be fifty reasons why eight o’clock classes shouldn’t exist. It was a decent start. Continuing to disregard the last few drafts I re-opened the post in which you are now reading. Re-reading the text in which I’d already written I told myself I wanted to write a story. And not just a story, a novel. A novel to be published and shelved and sold. A “best seller.”
A plot. That’s what I needed. Like a farmer needing a plot of land to grow his crops, a writer needs a plot to base their story. Cracking my knuckles I realized my goal was probably attainable. I just needed a vague plan of action. It didn’t need to be huge and detailed, just small, plot-filled and well-done. I needed to figure out how to motivate myself and how to write about the same topic for more than five pages without it sounding all entirely dull.
23%. The battery on my computer matched my energy level, stride for stride. I had none left in me to even begin to think about a plot decent enough to write about. “Write about what you know, the best stories are things you’ve experienced, really felt.” A long while ago, someone had given me that advice. I couldn’t help but remember it (as I usually do when attempting to begin a story) but at the same time.. I knew I have never followed it.
The light on my battery symbol has turned red. I glance towards my desk once again. My Equestrian Team coat is draped over the back of my chair. An empty desk. A stiff chair. Rocking the idea back and forth in my head I set on a goal: 19%, I’ll move to my desk.
Months ago, a friend of my Mom’s… and in turn, a friend of mine, asked me to read her novel that she was writing. The details were vivid, it was obvious she’d seen the things she was trying to describe. The words she used painted a broad picture as the plot began to unfold itself. I remember reading flipping to the end to see how far she’d gotten before I started over. I enjoyed to see the circle that a good book will draw. The patterns that writing brings. The nature of her words were deliberately chosen, a kind of professional elegance one would find in the newsprint world. Each word surved a clear, defined purpose. [see Susan Basham]
This past sumer I was able to connect with a relative of mine who’s books were published. We conversed about selling books to publishers and the process of writing, diagraming and… getting work published. The technical side left me quizzical, wondering why and needing more. Though, hearing her perspective left me a bit perplexed, I found myself agreeing with everything she’d said. [ see Kristin Miller ] (I also believe I’d written something on both authors before..)
17% and I’m still not sitting at my desk. A bird chirps outside and I’m on my stomach, cushioned by the two comforters and mattress below me. This is probably the most relaxed I’ve been all day and moving doesn’t seem to be worth it. I’ll finish typing this soon enough.
The front door creeks excessively, it almost mimics a moan as it slowly, painfully returns to it’s original state and shuts with a slam. Another roommate of mine must be home. I can hear her bag crinkling and her keys jingle. She talks quickly, shifting around the room in workout clothes. I pause from my typing, being sure to “mmh hmm” and nod encouragingly. My mind is elsewhere, as it usually is. Back to writing. Writing, hoping, planning.
I can hear voices in the hallway of neighbors, people walking, moving about, talking. The sun reflects off of my computer screen and reflects light onto the wall beside me.