Fresh rain scent drifting in through open windows and soft shadows locking me in sleepiness. Nothing could be more beautiful than that smell right now. Smells like newness. Very much, I imagine, like what hope would smell like if it could transcend into tangibility. (Who's to say it can't, though? And doesn't?)
Mm. In that little moment of distraction (which was actually a hugely helpful one - I've stumbled across a website I'm saving for exploring later, it looks really useful) I decided to hold myself back from placing one large, expensive bookdepository order and load up on books I've been meaning to all year over in New York. Genius, right? Ones I've needed anyway (screenwriting basics and the like... probably should have read them all before beginning...) and also, the thrill of hunting for them over there. If I'm lucky I'll find most second-hand, with someone else's scrawls and thoughts already seasoning the pages for me. Books really should never come entirely clean. Or, at least, shouldn't finish with you the same way they started. I have one book I've lent to people over and over throughout the years and now when I pull it out the spine falls open without argument, worn down to softness from so many immersions. It makes me even happier knowing it's been in so many hands (many of these hands over and over as well).
The rain's kicked in with commitment now. Bliss. Pair that with Alexander's gusto (not the first time I'll link to this and by the looks of it most definitely not the last), a bed so warm you can't help but push your feet around a little and last night's all-night-drive still bringing the drowsiness, and I'm just a little bit content.
There's some nice moments in the mix of this. Where self-loathing disgust at any word you've written down falls away, and you can look at something you've just created without judgment or perfectionist critique. You read something you worked on a little while ago and for one blessing of a moment it rings true. It's not contrite or bland. You recognise now the feeling you aimed to capture, which is more important than it seems. When you're in the middle of writing it, it's easy to know what's going on. You're there, right down to the hand waves and gesturing (a good reason writing should be done in solitude. It can get embarrassing). But when you can look back and instantly acknowledge what that same feeling is - for a minute, it's a little bit overwhelming. At the very least, it's something to return to in the midst of absolute frustrations, when dialogue comes out sounding like it'd be better off left with the five year olds for Barbie play time. Yeah, those moments happen a lot as well.
-- Whoops. Got so distracted it's now tomorrow. It happens.
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