I had a little break last weekend from creative writing as the first draft of novel number two is currently being market tested with a friend who happens to be in my target demographic. I was not quite ready to resume work on my other project, the collection of short stories.
My mind needed "a little holiday" so I spent my weekend indoors watching football finals, watching DVDs and spending time in philosophical discussions with friends. Discipline in writing is important, but it is equally important to know when to put the pen down and recharge. I felt really good taking the break.
Clear the head of an overflow of ideas. Yes, believe it or not, the week in week out writing had actually trained my mind to ask so many "what if" questions, that I felt there might be the equivalent of an outpouring from my ears the way a dam bursts after a downpouring of spring rain.
All of this coincided with actual torrential rains that inundated much of my state of origin over the course of the weekend. It was a good couple of days to be indoors. Floods by the week's end, and the prospect of pestilence to follow.
And it was a stark contrast to the last time I wrote about spring rain when my mind was in a much darker space. Abridged excerpt from novel number one below...
Yesterday, it rained for the first time in 150 days. And it rained all day. Almost half way through Spring and it still feels like winter. No one has been able to rescue me from the icy lake I have been drowning in since last week.
I am in the water, I am drowning. My body, my flesh too cold to move. As my head slips under the water, my vision is blinded by the murkiness. Even if I were able to crawl out onto land, I would still be drowning. My lungs filled with dense fog. My body, my flesh too cold to move because of the thick air hanging like sludge and tar sticking to my skin.
What is that stage of “grief” when you are told some (apparently) horrible news where you have reached the point of acceptance? There's denial, anger, bargaining, depression - all of which come before you reach that point.
Maybe I am being too flippant about it. A life filled with news that takes me to that point all too regularly when I think my number may be up, and the roll of a Russian Roulette gun's carousel will take an unlucky turn. Then the optimist in me (yes, there is one in there somewhere) thinks "I've lasted this long - I'll probably live till I am one hundred"!
I spent my day yesterday looking at old photos hoping the spring rain would wash away more than just my mood.
Today the storm clouds rolling across the sky do not seem anywhere near as ominous.