When the boredom became deafening and waiting became interminable, something snapped and
I wrote half a story, up until 2am and drowning in metaphors, the images coming thick and fast and the story branching, swerving, growing despite itself. Sucking on a bottle of red wine and forgetting the world, falling into story.
Crashed late, dreamt twisted, woke early, stared mute at the newspaper. A blank morning passed.
When the sun became too hard and the hail smashed against the window I painted pictures full of water and sap yellow grass and thunderous skies.
This seems necessary:
a) insufferable boredom, repetitive tasks, acres of nothingness that sink into ones bones.
b) that itchy, unsettled, almost-angry feeling that means I'm about to start spewing out story/picture.
I'm not sure if this is a healthy schema, the tossing and turning and unsettled sensation of creativity. I'm not sure if there are better, more consistent ways to produce things. I don't know, ever, if I'm doing it right. I suspect the mistakes are part of the work.
I do know I've got 1,500 words and half a dozen small pictures to show for it, this motion sickness of inbalance.
Swings and roundabouts, amen.