“All you need is silence. All you need is Oliver Shanti playing Sacral Nirvana over and over again in your eardrums. Listen… the house is quiet, the lights are fading and the rhythmic sounds invite you to write again, for your pleasure only.”
Whenever a new short story is calling me out to write it, I have a strict rule of ignoring it at first. There is a huge amount of work I always need to do and I use that as an excuse to delay this new urge that prowls around me. I can see it, I can feel it, I can even write it with my mind, but I never trust it enough to put it on paper. So, the dance begins, I avoid it and it persecutes me, constantly annoying my thoughts; it’s like a child’s game that I never get tired of. Days, weeks or sometimes months pass and although I sketch and outline the main ideas either in my head or on random pieces of paper, I never define it as being the next one. After all that dancing the feet of my curiosity get tired and sit down and talk some sense into me; either I get a lecture about my laziness or fear, or I just get slapped by my own inner self. And so, I start writing it, the next short story, the next torment that I picked up from someone else’s words or my own personal fears.
Last night the house was sleeping, the cat was chasing and teasing a butterfly and Sacral Nirvana was tickling the edges of my soul through the headphones. Everything was ready and the only thing I needed to add were my fingers on the keyboard. It was like magic and the longing for fear of the new kept the story nicely wrapped like a Christmas present. I missed that feeling and chasing after new, rewarding projects lately, only made me love the dance even more.
