Music; tunes stir the stories, invoke characters, nudge nuances. As long as I listen to music, I’ll probably be writing something, be it manuscripts, blog posts, letters to family.
Paper; notebooks, journals, small legal pads, and folders filled with loose sheets litter my desk. Every time I come across blank pages, I’m compelled to put words on those empty stretches. Not that I could ever use up all those sheets, but they tease, as do the multitude of pens on either side of my monitor, or in the cup behind me on the buffet.
Pens; see above. (I do prefer black gel, fine line. For cards, ball points are best, as they don’t smear.)
Plots; I have more ideas than sense. Not enough time to write them all, so it’s a balance of what half-baked notion bests another slightly formed story as the WIP. More than not, there are a few battling for that crown, which at the moment includes ideas for NaNoWriMo alongside a short story for a cooperative of which I am a part. I’m just starting to get my feet wet with short stories, although my first wasn’t that brief. More on that soon enough.
Sport; how dramatic is the tension as hopes, dreams, and sorrows play out in real-time? My SF 49ers lost this weekend; it happens. My husband’s beloved Green Bay Packers play tonight, lord help us! Watching sport, be it footie or baseball, tennis or athletics, stirs the deepest dramatic longings, which I have incorporated into a few books via baseball. Such an easy sport of which to write, but American football calls to me, begging to receive that same fictional treatment. Perhaps someday…
Communication; I have these words, even here in this post. I’m telling anyone willing to read it why I write, but perhaps the most honest reason is just to be heard. All the rest are tools, getting me to where I sit in front of a large screen, wishing to convey the brutal need of my heart to express plentiful nonsense, many truths, some lies, all dressed in tunes and sport, laid out in longhand or typed with wrapped hands. I’m fighting tendonitis in my left forearm, carpal tunnel in my right wrist, but I’ll be darned to stay silent. When the choice exists, like a pitcher with a worn and aching arm, or the running back going with nothing in the tank, here I am, blathering away, glad for the chance to speak my peace.
That’s all I want to do, just speak my peace.