TANGLED SHEETS

During a writer's workshop I once attended, the attendees were given photograph prompts to write from. One of them intrigued me and I chose it to write a short fiction piece in first person point of view.

TANGLED SHEETS

I had one of those no-sleep-in (you can insert your own city here) nights. Not switching on the light, I crawled out of bed. I knew I was leaving a tangled mess of the sheets I had so carefully folded back early in the evening. Nights were like this often since the attack.

Experts contintually tell me I need to set a new routine at bedtime. Go to bed at ten after a nice warm soak in the tub with a cool glass of wine. Only one glass, not the entire bottle. Both should soothe me, comfort my inner angst, offer me a relaxed approach to the dark of my bedroom. It hasn't helped.

Someone else told me maybe I should leave a small light on and play soft music. At first, the light seemed like a good idea; it dispelled the darkness I had found engulfing me that night. It also created shadows on the wall, the ceiling, among the corners--all of which caused my heart to pound so loud I couldn't have even closed my eyes much less found sleep. And the music, even my favorite soft oldies stuff, covered up the chance that I might miss--as I had on that night--the jimmying of a lock or footsteps down a hall.

When I rose from my bed each night, I left the light off. I crept through the darkness through the unfamiliar rooms, dodging furniture shapes in a new arrangement. Slipping a finger between the blinds I peered out on the street from four stories up, needing to know if anyone lurked below. I didn't dare open the refrigerator for fear the light would give my position in my own home away. The fact that I had moved, left a home and an area that was ingrained in my soul, made no difference to my head. There was no safe place to my way of thinking.

So--I wandered around the fortress I had created for myself--rechecked the alarm system, putting my ear to the steel door leading into a well-lit public hallway, listening for any sound out of the ordinary, if I knew what that was anymore. Somewhat assured, I found my favorite chair, curled up in it, hugged myself tightly, and breathed deeply until I could force myself back to that bed--the bed with new soft, pink sheets and a large pillow to hug closely for added protection.

If I didn't turn on the light, I couldn't see the damage restlessness had done to the bed. But I was sure, well, hopefully assured, that when I once more am able to sleep and wake in a refreshed state, I won't find a knife-wielding stranger standing beside me, or see my own blood when I look in the mirror, flowing from wounds I am accussed of causing myself because I screamed and fought back. And those tangled sheets won't look the same as they had that night.

One day, or some night, I will have the freedom to accept peace, comfort, and that wonderful sleep.

CURIOUS PLACES

Years ago while attending a creative writing seminar, an instructor had us write for ten minutes in the conference room where held. She gave us a topic and asked that we freewrite for that time--no stopping, no corrections,just write. The she moved the small group outdoors to a sunny patio to write for another ten minutes--same directions--without a topic.

If you don't think the world around you affects your writing try this experiment. I found my first ten minutes was more restricted, more classroom-like. It didn't mean that I couldn't produce something readible within those restraints and that time-frame but it was more like being in school again. My ten-minute writing outdoors flowed more freely, seemed more open, and read like I had connected with my inner self.

My recommendation is to try your writing--even on the same subject matter--in your office and then move out to the patio, down to the park, or find a back booth at a fast-food place. It is worth the test to see if you write with more enthusiasm and ease in one place or the other.

One of my favorite poets, and writers, is Gary Snyder. This is one of his thoughts that resonated with me:

"Memories and our old pathways are woven like ghost nets invisibly filling the landscape of our days."