Just yesterday I was sat in a pub garden having lunch, today I’m on my sofa with a candle burning listening to the rain lash against the window. Autumn is being a little indecisive so far it seems, but I’m kinda loving it.
After last month feeling full of energy but also a little tired, I took a few days off to reset before heading into October and it was the best thing. I also cleared out my wardrobe, coloured my hair darker and got new glasses which fulfilled my autumnal desire for change.
Now I’m feeling refreshed and renewed, it’s time to settle in for another monthly mindscape, the one blog a month that I do purely for the joy of it. I pick an image from Instagram I love and write a short piece of fiction inspired by it.
These blogs never get as much traffic or engagement as my other ones, but I love them for giving me space to be creative.
This month I’ve chosen this image by Hazel (@ninfa_moderna) an artist I recently discovered on Instagram who’s images I’ve fallen head over heels for. Her scrapbook shots in particular are incredible. I used to love making collages like this when I was younger and these images remind me how it feels to be creative just for fun.
So, let’s see what words spill out from this. As always, there’s no drafting or planning, just word spillage…
Lying on the floor of her living room, she’s making shapes from the cracks in the ceiling. Her body and mind are reverberating after a busy week and this, right now, is exactly what she needs. She can hear the wind howling outside, but nothing else.
This is space, she realised. This is what it feels like to not be distracted by screens and noise 24/7. Her mind is trying desperately to fill the space, jumping from the future to the past and back again.
Soon the cracks in the ceiling stop being zoo animals and return to just being cracks. Her body gently moans about its position on the floor and she sighs deeply. Getting up she looks around her. There must be something she can do that doesn’t involve the Internet.
She noticed a stack of magazines, but the idea of reading doesn’t sit quite right. Instead, she roots through her desk drawer in search of scissors and glue.
She smiles as they appear alongside her favourite pen. Taking them to the living room she carefully selects a record from her collection and sets it spinning. Familiar chords fly through the air and her smile broadens.
Wrapping herself in a fuzzy yellow blanket, she places a cushion on the floor to appease her aching body. She spreads magazines, paper and other assorted stationery around her, surrounding herself in a delightful mess.
Flipping through the pages she allows her eye to guide her. She find themes, words and colours, arranging them in a way that makes sense to no one but her. Like muscle memory her creativity flexes and stretches with every cut.
Her mind is silent. Filled only with the words of the song playing and directions for her hands. After an hour she looks at her creation. Every part of her relaxes and warms as an inner glow quietly reignites.
Ahh. That was fun. There’s just a different feeling you get when you’re writing fiction – no better or worse than other types of writing, just different. It feels refreshing.
OK, over to you – when was the last time you did something creative… just for you?
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