Before you start reading, I must apologize. This is really just a long brainstorming session in which I try to figure some things out. But feel free, in the comments, to give me your opinion, your guidance, or your thumbs-up!
Last night I went through a bunch of my old blog entries, ones from two years ago. What I discovered by doing this is that 1) I used to write much more, 2) I was more diverse in what I wrote about, and 3) I really miss writing.
Amidst the snippets of my life were little bits of creative writing that I had done either in the moment or as the result of a writing prompt. And some of them were, I think, pretty good. And the ones that were pretty good made me want to write more.
I hadn't realized until last night how much I truly miss the practice of writing. And I probably wouldn't have been thinking about it if not for something that happened the other day.
My favorite movie, Stranger than Fiction, was on TV. I love, love, love this movie. If you've never seen it, you should. Part of the movie focuses on a writer and watching it makes me want to write, fervently and desperately. There's this press of ideas within me, full sentences and paragraphs that explode in the periphery of my mind, and I want so very badly to allow them out into the world.
So, watching the movie the other night, these words just came into my head. Over and over. Finally, I just listened (sometimes the hardest thing to do), and I wrote:
The day
that Lizzie O’Rierdon died was exceptionally sunny in the way that only the
perfect Spring day can be. The sky was a perfect azure; the clouds were creamy
swirls of white; the breeze was crisp but not too cool. Had it not been for the
fact that it was the last day of Lizzie’s life, it would have been, for her,
the most perfect day of her life. As it stood, it was still a wonderfully
amazing day with the mere exception of the final four minutes and thirty-seven
seconds. That said, of course, the minutes immediately thereafter were quite
phenomenal in her estimation, though it is not that part of the story with
which we shall start.
We
shall, instead, start at the beginning. Not at the beginning of Lizzie’s life,
but at the beginning of a series of events that would bring it to its untimely
but poetically necessary end.
I have no idea where these words came from. I know that sounds strange, but it was like they were dictated to me. The problem is that the dictation stopped. I have no idea where these words are going. I don't know what the story is. The voice went silent.
And I think that's because the rest is solely up to me. Crap.
So this morning, I started scrolling through my photographs, looking for inspiration. What will Lizzie O'Rierdon's story be about? I still don't know the answer to that, but I know that the following pictures play into it somehow...
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I don't know. I don't know if I'm any closer to figuring out Lizzie O'Rierdon's story. But I feel like somewhere in these pictures, I can find some answers.
What do you think?
