Writing and Art Dreams
A few nights ago I dreamed of moving desks and of emptying out the drawers. It felt cleansing and as a reminder to let go of things.
I like thinking of my novels on clouds. Maybe it’s what the dream represents.
It’s more cinematic than the reality of storing them in a discarded drawer in a long ago desk.
I once wrote part of a novel on a business desk when I lived at the beach, then later finished the novel and another novel and several short stories in a burgundy red painted room on an ultra modern glass desk. The desk went to an EX, his furniture style not mine.
I learned I will not write in a red painted room again. Why we did not paint those walls is a lesson in primer and a lack of knowledge about painting. Though the call to painting happened in that room as a dream, and as one of my characters…an artist materialized in a story and over time I began to dabble in the arts, but not in the red room… but outside with nature’s colors that called and still call to me to this day.
The novels went to publishers…not a fun journey..
a story for another day and have remained on my PC and on the external hard disk now replaced by the Cloud.
Though, I opened the metaphoric drawers on my PC and edited my RUBY Series, a hybrid mystical novel-esque creature that I felt compelled to edit in this year in the Year of the Dragon. It’s the same year my hand cyst, erupted after 15 years of yoga and four or five books and thousands of words written for clients. The cyst is gone, thanks to a hand surgeon and the hand is mending and still hurts as I type these words.
My favorite writing desk now is dark stained and made of Acacia wood, and there is now a fun Art Desk.
It is a green desk and in my art studio. It is picking up bits of paint and freckled with splashes of colors and the marks I have made, some deliberate on it’s surface and some from traces of art dripping onto its legs and in its crevices. I like it more than the other desks and books stored on clouds. They aren’t as satisfying to me as seeing a trail of the colorful marks I’ve made this year, though I still love writing. I always will it is my first creative love. But there is something about art where colors tell the story that feels more like play and less like work.
After all since words these days wind up in a drawer or in a cloud it’s only natural that they’d want to try for a wall space. Some dreams do like hanging around. Even if the form changes, it’s still creating something from my soul, and that’s a song I love singing. Though the tune and tone maybe new, new even to me, and for that I’m grateful.
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(Now tell me about your writing or art making desks.)
