Over the weekend, I had a bit of inspiration for a short story. The trouble was that I was in a bar trying to listen to live music performed by people I knew (but not well enough for them to be completely understanding of me scribbling on scrap paper at the bar while they played). The next day turned into a whirlwind of nonsense and I only got to a bit of dialogue. The dialogue is missing context, plot, and a host of other things. It was a start.
Saturday night found me watching a completely different band — this time outdoors in a brutal wind (okay, for those of you up in the frozen, blizzardy north, it was honestly a 17mph wind and the temp was in the very low 60s (F), but in my defense I was dressed to be indoors — in a short-sleeved sweater and a thin jacket — and we were out there from 9pm to 2am). I couldn’t feel my fngers even if I’d wanted to scribble on napkins and hope they didn’t blow away.
Normally, I write on a laptop. When I get new inspiration, though, I usually want to uproot the thing from its myriad cords and cool pads and external mice and etc. and take it out to the yard for a change of scenery. Except I was transferring files to external hard drives. (I’m telling you, my weekend was against me.) So, I tried scribbling on paper.
I’ve had a thing for office supplies since I was a tiny tot drooling over markers and notebooks instead of Barbies, and all this really means is that I sometimes have to have the “right” pen for a job — nevermind how mundane the job — and sometimes the “right” paper or the “right” surface… and all these “right”s change periodically to keep me delightfully unbalanced.