The 1st of March brings to mind a rhyme my Dad used to repeat when I was a child: Spring is sprung, the grass is riz, I wonders where the birdies is. This, of course, is apropos of absolutely nothing, other than the fact that something primeval within me has recognised the approach of a change in season.
I realised something was up when I started moving furniture last week. The sky was blue, the sun held some warmth and I'd turned off the heating and opened all the doors and windows. I'd only intended to do my usual quick run round with a duster and the hoover, but low and behold spring madness wafted in. Before I knew it, I was clearing out accumulated rubbish and playing Tetris with my bedroom furniture in an attempt to swap over my wardrobe and my desk (you would have to understand the layout, smallness and quirky-shapedness of my bedroom to fully understand the insanity of said manoeuvre, especially single-handed).
I'm looking on the new configuration of my bedroom as an interesting shift in my state of mind. My desk, was originally in the lounge where I could police my daughters' use of the internet when that was still a necessity. They grew up. I started my OU course and needed peace and quiet to write, not endless re-runs of Friends and Scrubs ricocheting around my head while I tackled the concepts of POV, and iambic pentameter. Consequently, the desk moved to my bedroom where I could shut the door. Despite the presence of the desk squished into the corner of the room, I continued to write sitting in or on the bed. I thought this was Interesting and Proustesque. Actually it just killed my back. My desk became swamped by paper, magazines, books and clothes. And it started to feel as though the deeper my desk got buried in the detritus of everyday life, the more difficult I found it to write.
Throwing off the winter gloom and hibernation, I have created a dedicated writing space. The desk has a lamp, a printer and my laptop. The books, magazines and paper have all been moved up to a shelf (also put up by self - with help from daughter who was luckily on hand to sit me in a quiet, dark corner when I started to get wild-eyed and snarling whilst still in charge of a fully functional drill). I have completed a short story since the excavation and liberation of my desk and sent out two others to magazines (previously I've only ever submitted two short stories and a poem anywhere at all). Not bad in just a week. This afternoon/weekend, I'm planning on beginning a short story for The Writers' Workshop's next challenge and adding to the 600 words in the novel.
Don't ya love spring?
