An Idea

Yes, I have decided to reenter the world of blogging after a long and lonely dry spell. And I am reentering with a mission, or a goal in mind, which is in reality a hope and a dream. More importantly though it needs reader participation to be a success. Here is the plan. I have been working on an idea for a story (maybe a novel? we will see) in a fiction class I am taking in school. It is a fantastic class and the teacher is truly wonderful and has done a great deal to inspire me. Back to the point though. So I have been working on a story idea and writing friction fragments of this greater story for class assignments. It is an idea that I really like and I want to share with more people. Thus I have decided to share it with you! Here though is what I need you to do. Please please please comment on each fragment (I will add them slowly to the blog). The thing is though that I really want some feedback here. Do you like the characters? Do you feel like the setting, tone, mood and mystery (or not) work or don’t work for you, etc. Each piece has been written to fulfill an assignment and so I will explain what the requirements are that I am writing for before each peace. Sound like a plan?

I have been learning in my class that there is a difference between the story and what the piece is about. For instance you could write a flash fiction on a lady bug munching on aphids in a rosemary patch when what you are really trying to communicate to the reader is that the upper one percent just swallows the other ninety nine. Who knows? This is just an example and does not necessarily allude to my political views. It simply seemed like a relevant example.

This is what my story is really about. Art. I think that art can be healing in so many ways, especially the creation of art. It really doesn’t matter what form it takes – writing, painting, sculpting, print, photography, dance, music … – as long as it’s art and the inspiration comes from the soul. I know that for me writing is therapeutic, it allows me to express and feel in a very unconstricted and liberating way. I have also come to learn in my life that things beautiful can be made from hard situations or even ugly things in life. Grace exists every where and only something so strong and resilient as the human spirit can continue to seek, find and create beauty amidst or from hardship.

Piece one: The assignment here was to create a character through setting. The character being created is to not be present. It would be like walking into a strangers bedroom or office and getting a sense of that person through the things there. Its like a window into their life. Piece one is a window into one of my characters life.

I can remember that day so well….

The sheets were worn but clean and carried the delicate scent of summer and the sea. A simple wooden chair stood in the corner, a seat of woven grass. It tilted at a funny angle. I would later learn that the front right leg is just a little bit shorter than the others. A mistake made by an apprentice craftsman. A three-legged table of the same wood had been carefully placed under a window, which opened up onto a sweeping hillside of lush green grass and unruly flowers. The window was long and rectangular and guarded by deep green shutters. A single vase of liquid blue glass sat in the center of the table. Flowers with delicate orange petals delighted in the soft light streaming through the cracks of those deep green shutters. The floor was bare, red tile, save a hand-woven rug of simplistic beauty at the side of the bed. Threads of deep never ending purple, red like the earth and fresh cream wound out in perfect symmetry. It was thin in the middle from where someone had placed their feet, each morning at first light for decades. A strong door with a wrought iron handle was located at the far side of the room. The boards were hand painted blue like the sky between the edge of night and the break of day.  Red birds and flowers that wore the color of the sun traced patterns through the blue, leading the eye on a maze of purposefulness pleasure.

Curious I slipped from beneath the sheets, my toes pressed into the rug that had already seen so many mornings. Carefully I inched my way towards the door. Toes curled on the tile almost afraid to touch the beauty of that place. The flowers on the table encouraged me forward towards the door. I paused on that morning; fingers perched on the handle, smooth and cool to the touch. From up close I could see the way the wood grain stood out on the door, like it had been there for countless ages and could no longer bother to hold itself together. The door swung open with the slightest of squeaks just enough to make me cringe.

I recall blinking in surprise at the scene that greeted me from the other side. So unlike the one I had just left. Paper and books were strewn over tables that line the walls, the very same tables I write at today. Piles of books stood higher than I in some places. Windows on all sides flooded the room with clean light – spilling over the books and cascading to the floor where it pooled. Vases stuffed with wildflowers crowded into the corners, some of the specimens dead and forgotten with powdery leaves flitting to the floor. Others stood with regal pride bursting forth with color and fragrance. An easel with a half finished painting dominated the center of the room. Paint splatters covered the surrounding tile, some were still wet. An ocean flowed from the canvas. Tranquil and inviting. A boat, La María, is half painted floating in space waiting to be given life. Dirty dishes had been left on the center of a table, crumbs from toast, and fruit preserves on a platter of simple unadorned pottery. A breeze soft and warm swept through the room. Ruffling papers on the tables. One dislodged itself and floated to my feet. The paper was thick and felt old in my hands. A woman was sketched in charcoal. Broad, bold strokes brought her to life, coaxing her from the page. She looked peaceful as she slept, long hair thrown carelessly across a pillow, delicate nose, strong eyebrows and soft full lips maybe the bottom a little too full. It took me a moment to realize the sleeping woman was me.

* So please remember to comment, on anything. I really want to know what you think. I am more than open to suggestions!

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