Positivity Post: Positive Art on the London Underground
I’m in a curious position at the moment. It seems that now my creative writing muse has reawakened, my blogging muse has gone to sleep. It’s very odd. I’ve written 500 words of my novel this week (at the end of this post, if you’d like to read it), and yet the last time I posted was another four days ago. I’m sitting here now, with my room in a mess and my revision undone, anxious to get a post written. Yet the only thing I can write about is the fact that I’ve nothing to write about at all.
I’m sure we’ve all been through this. It’s particularly terrible for me because my blog is entirely centred around my ideas, and when that’s all smothered under a workload it’s difficult to think of anything. I do know that for the month of November, and I say this to warn you now, my posts will be primarily writing-based as I participate in NaNoWriMo. But as for October? The cold winds have come and blown away my muse.
I almost decided that I would cease writing altogether. But I don’t think I could do that. Not when opinions do come to the surface, or I need to express a particular frustration at absurd rules and regulations at my new school (which is going quite well, by the way). Instead, as I’ve lately been trying to get myself more organised I’m going to (attempt) to stick to a post schedule. (The latter word scares me. I’m not used to its concept.)
- Tuesdays will be writing day.
- Fridays will be rant/ramble/opinion day.
- Saturdays will be progress day, which will most likely have something to do with Mandarin, Chinese culture, school or writing.
Hopefully this won’t work out too badly, and you’ll still be willing to stick around on this blog! 😀
“I’d only like to get to know you, you know. No harm in that.” He allows his composure to crack open into a nervous smile, badly timed, received but not replicated. The corner of his mouth twitches and he checks a watch. Ink black hair falls into his face.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.” He makes a false start and tries again. “Your book. I like your book.”
“Are you religious?”
“Did you watch my interviews?”
Laugh lines and white teeth. “All of them. Twice over.”
“Then you know the answer to that question.”
“But I don’t!” He brings his palms together. Skin a by-product of British multi-culture. Eyes grey. “And I want to. I want you to tell me. You’re so interesting.”
“How did you know I was here?”
He waves the question away and then answers anyway. “I followed you from your agent’s office.”
“You wanted to know if I was religious?”
“Everyone believes in God. Where God is the idea of humanity’s creation.”
“God isn’t the same thing as religion.”
“No it isn’t.”
“And not everyone cares about how humanity was created.”
“They’re the true atheists. Not like the people of today who waste their time renouncing something they profess not to believe in.”
“Are you a “true” atheist?”
“Are you a journalist?”
Laughter trips over teeth. Spittle settles just under his lip. My chocolate is cold in the mug.
A few more words are exchanged and the days wears on and his name is Aurel and he is not a journalist. He is a writer. His coat is beside him on the cubicle seat and he has ordered two glasses of orange juice. He doesn’t drink.
“So this Creator in your newest novel…he isn’t very god-like. Not in the extract.”
“Creator isn’t male.”
“I thought he was?”
“Creator isn’t male. Creator isn’t anything, least of all God.”
“So where did he come from?”
“Where did you come from?”
A familiar flash of white. “My mother’s womb. After one too many.”
“You can remember it?”
“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. There was my mother. A father. The certificate.”
“And Creator has its existence. Presence. It came into being or it always was. There isn’t really a difference.”
“It doesn’t know?”
“Maybe it doesn’t remember. How far back can you remember? Four years old? Before that there’s nothing. Tied up and asked where you began you couldn’t really say.”
“You’ll tie me up?”
“I’m tired, old and married.”
“There isn’t a difference.”
“Tatchell would disagree.” He pushes his hair from his face. It begins to rain outside and the world beyond the window is stained with grey. “So Creator doesn’t know when or if it was born.”
“More importantly, it doesn’t care.”
“…Creator is an atheist?”
“If you want to put it like that yes. All manners of God and gods are atheist. They don’t believe in themselves.”
“But they exist. They believe in their own existence.”
“Is the room within or without the room?”
He sits in thought. The rain runs down the windows. The café is quiet save the low hum of some failed soul-singer.
“What do you write about Aurel?”
“Oh.” He looks up. Grey eyes are somewhere far away. “Oh, this and that. Mainly authors. I send out letters and ask for interviews. It’s funny, all the best have been rejected numerous times and at the height of their fame they’re so eager to dish out rejection themselves.”
“You know how it goes. They were nobodies and then they thought they were somebodies and they’ll know when it’s time to die because they’ll begin to slide into obscurity again.”
“I guess. My dream is to make a story with all the world’s most famous authors as the characters.”
“You’re one of them.”