Writing Environment

I’m working currently on a side book, less historical fiction and more fantasy based on historical legends and magic. I was on a roll, writing about 2,000 words an evening–That’s when I do my best writing, in the evening. However, after four days of epic writing stats, I stalled. A little here, a little there, but nothing pouring out of my fingers like before. That happens quite frequently at the beginning of a project. This one especially so, as the idea, plot, and characters came to life in a dream one night.

How did I recover my momentum?

I find that a change of scenery, any change, helps a lot. I was lucky enough to be invited to a cottage on a lake by family at just the right time, and BAM! It started to flow again. Even with all the activities and water sports, I still managed 1200 words per day. Changing the smells, sights, and noises around you can be so incredibly inspiring. Don’t have a cottage on a lake? No worries. Go to a park and sit under a tree. Or a coffee shop. Anywhere thats different from your usual writing station. Bring your laptop or just a writing journal (I’ll post more about my writing journal tomorrow). It’s amazing how just one tiny little thing can inspire an entire scene. A dragonfly landed on my leg while kayaking:

“The sweat trickled down her neck and under the collar of her shirt in the afternoon sun.  She wiped away the beads gathering on her upper lip with such ferocity she let out an audible ouch as she shifted her knees in the dirt again. Her legs were be speckled with brown earthy grains clinging to the moisture gathering on her knees and thighs. Her movements were quick and agitated, ripping the tiny plants from the ground that simply had the misfortune of being carried on the wind into her garden rather than some other location, when an errant thorn caught the flesh of her palm bringing her promptly out of her storm. Salt and grit assaulted her tongue as she sucked on her wound, leaning her head back facing the sky and sun, eyes closed, the heat only infuriating her more rather than melting her cares away. With a sigh, she returned her attention slowly to her plants, their waxy green leaves glistening in the heat. She admired the ants, dutifully climbing up and down stems, gathering for their queen; the bright red lady bugs hunting down the aphids that would eat away the life giving leaves; the bees buzzing their happy tunes collecting and pollinating taking and giving for all to enjoy, and her lips curled into a soft smile, finally finding her calm. As she stretched out her arm to pull the last tiny weed hiding at the base of a rather rambunctious clump of bee balm, a blue dragonfly perched itself just there on her forearm, tickling the tiny hairs with the breeze off it’s wings. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a dragonfly in her garden before. Frankly, there wasn’t enough water nearby to attract them.

“Are you lost little one?” she inquired more to herself, than the insect, “Out of place and alone…” the breeze lifted slightly and off it flew, as if it were never there. “Always alone,” she finished, pulling that last weed from the damp warm earth and gathering up the lavender from her dumped basket.”

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