I missed another Wednesday deadline.
Maybe I should just make Thursday the deadline?
Either way, it’s clear I’m not making writing enough of a priority as of late (and the same goes for reading, I’m embarrassed to say). A colleague just posted something this morning – talk about signs from the universe! – about procrastination that really struck home and made me pay more attention to my “schedule.”
This is it, man; this time is all we get. And I become so frustrated with myself because I wrote so many posts about the passing of time during this pandemic and resulting quarantine, so I should know better. I need to make time for what’s important, and my career is extremely important to me, but so is my writing. I want to make it my career, and as such, I need to pay it the attention it rightfully deserves. So this post is part pledge, part prose.
I have been writing some random, disconnected bits of images that come into my mind just before bed. Hopefully, one such scene will turn into a story as long as I take the time to sit with it and expand it. Here’s one such scene:
He didn’t even know she was in the room. The broad strokes he made with the stick of charcoal were uninterrupted. He stayed on the sool with one leg dangling to the floor. His eyes were wide, trying to simultaneously assess his work so far and decided where to go next. His focus was absolute and her footsteps had fallen on deaf ears. She didn’t mind because she liked watching him work, especially now in the late afternoon when the room burned with the sun’s dying rays pouring in from the westward facing floor to ceiling windows. In another twenty minutes or so, when the radio DJ talked more and played less music for the suckers struggling to get home in rush hour traffic, he’d have to turn on the many lamos of all different shapes and sizes scattered about the studio.
The radio was turned low and she couldn’t exactly make out the melody. He kept it in the far corner and only ever turned it on or off and adjusted the volume. He didn’t go scanning stations. He never really listened anyway. It was all white noise. When he really wanted to hear, he’d use headphones. It was like leaning closer to hear every word in a conversation and he always minimized the distance between himself and whatever it was he wanted to give his undivided attention to.
It was thrilling when it was her.
He toddled off his spindly, wooden stool to survey his sketch, standing tall to take it all in. His long, black jacket hung off his frame, falling past his knees. When he finally turned around to face her, she knew he’d be shirtless. The jacket was his favorite piece of clothing and he treated it more and more like a security blanket. His sterling silver pendant of Saint Catherine of Bologna would hang low around his neck and would catch her eye as it always did. It was the only piece of jewelry he owned.
She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorjamb. They could stay just like this, he wouldn’t even have to turn around, and she’d be happy. Her lips parted in a smile and all that joy nearly bubbled into a laugh, so she brought her hand up to cover her mouth and stifle the sound. She wasn’t ready to be discovered just yet.
As I wrote that, a fuller series of scenes began to develop in my mind, like:
- him lighting a cigarette for her with match on smooth side of his pendant
- drew his own tattoos
- draws on her arm while she watches the rain in the morning, talking softly
- black smudges on her face from charcoal
- going to dinner with friends, she orders white wine
Maybe this will become something … who knows? All I do know is that I need to keep writing.