This is that bit of free writing I did yesterday. I wasn’t originally going to share it, but it feels worth sharing when amongst those who might appreciate it.
I also tried to impliment a few tips I had been given while writing this. Hopefully it’s worked out.
976 words.
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“It was a dark and stormy night…”
The writer sneered and swiped a paw through the paint. She must be getting desperate if she was willing to start with such an archaic and overused cliche. She circled the now-blank canvas, her eyes glaring at the virgin white that now mocked her. She snatched up her brush and turned her attention back to her palette. Perhaps she didn’t mix the paint well enough, or maybe a little too well. She studied the pockets of color as her tail flicked behind her. A little more silver, a lot less grey, and just a dab of brown might do the trick.
“The moon hung low in the velvet sky, deepening shadows and secrets across the forest floor…”
Her head tilted as she studied the different colors streaked across her canvas. Closer. It was a start, if nothing else. Maybe she needed to add a bit of music. She reached for the strings resting on the top of her stool and began to pluck with her claws, mindful that she didn’t cut any of the delicate threads as she wove them together.
Perhaps she could ease the reader into the story with a splash of Moonlight Sonata to start. Now that the setting was in place, maybe something a bit more lively to introduce a few of the characters. Pachelbel’s Canon in D should work, and add a smooth transition into Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 to get the plot really going. Reaching the climax, nothing short of Ride of the Valkeries would due, and-
SNAP! PLINK!
Crap crap crap! She had pushed it too hard too fast too soon. The feline stared at the mess left by the now-broken strings, her tail sinking to the floor. How in the world could she salvage this mess? She threw the strings down and ran her claws through her hair with a sigh. Maybe… maybe this was a story that was never meant to be told.
As soon as the thought skittered across her mind though, she quickly cast it off with a few quick shakes of her head. No! Every story should be given the right to be told. It didn’t matter how tightly they clung to the edges of the conscious mind, shying away from any attention. If anything, those were the stories that needed to be told the most, becasue those had the potential to be the most sacred and true. But how could she coax it out of all this chaos?
She made another circle of the canvas, this time slower than before. There had to be a way to make Order out of all this Chaos. If not, how could she bear to share her creation with everyone else? She paused mid-step as a realization dawned on her. Everyone else. When was the last time she created something just for herself? When was the last time she was truly selfish, making something for her senses and creative flow alone?
She knelt down and picked up a few of the broken strings that sang the truest to her. She then picked up her palette and dipped the strings in the colors that felt most real to her. She walked up to the canvas, closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Before she could start second guessing herself, she set her body to motion in a way that felt the most honest to her. It was hard at first. Letting go of Control and Order and a nearly obsessive need to constantly question one’s own instincts is never an easy feat.
Before long, though, she could feel the music drive her motion, hear the colors swirl around her body and taste the words that began to take shape. She tilted her head back and spun round and round as the weight of expectations flew off of her shoulders. She reached up into the open sky and grabbed onto the story, no longer fearing where it would take her or how. Her chest opened up and her heart poured out its pain and love and laughter and tears and uninhibited joy for just being alive.
When the laughter bubbled up far too high and the tears fell too far down, the ground came up and kissed her back and held her close in its grasp. Several mintues went by as she laid there, catching her breath and savoring the experience for everything it was and was not. When her heart finally climbed back into her chest, she took her time collecting her feet beneath her, for what did time matter after a brush with Creative Freedom in it’s purest sense? She wiped the blur from her eyes and looked over what she had created.
It was an absolute mess of art and self-expression. It broke so many rules and would probably be denied by any self-respecting publisher. And yet… and yet she couldn’t help but smile as her eyes picked out the finer details, ranging from the quiet comforting purr of a protective lion to the gentle loving guidance of a spirit wolf.
This was her creation, made by her, for her. No one else. This was her life, her heart, her soul, bared on canvas in all it’s messy glory. It wasn’t at all beautiful by society’s standards, but by gods it was beautiful in her eyes. This day, this hour, this moment, that was all that mattered. She picked up the canvas, a few more bubbles of laughter wriggling their way out of her throat as she finally accepted all she was. She held her creation to her chest, a few last tears trickling from her eyes as she embraced everything she could be.
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