On the First Day

God rolled up the shutters. The garage was dark and dusty and lifeless, jammed with boxes and rusty tools and splints of broken furniture. Even the spiderwebs were empty. But the spirit of promise moved across the surface of the detritus.

God rooted around in one of the dusty boxes and gently pulled out a bulb, giving it a shake to make sure the supernova inside was still swirling. She twisted it into the fitting above her head and moved to the switch by the door. “Let there be light,” she said, flicking the switch.

The supernova condensed down to a tiny glowing point and then exploded, sending clouds of gas and base elements scattering across the wild, formless space. God watched as the clouds swirled like milk in a teacup, and then began to fall in on themselves, building a fiery glow within them from the battle between explosion and gravity. Soon the whole garage was littered with hundreds upon thousands of tiny suns, winking and sparkling like glowbugs.

There was light. And God looked upon her work, and nodded to herself. It was good. Then she went and got herself a chamomile tea and watched an episode of Brooklyn Nine Nine. She wasn’t in any hurry. Besides, you couldn’t rush these things.

…

Happy December! I’m playing Christmas music on repeat, my diet is now exclusively pannetone and minced pies, and I am doing Writer’s HQ‘s #WritingAdvent – writing prompts and inspiration for every day in this most holy and commercial of months. The prompt for Dec 1 was, fittingly, “On the First Day…” and a god in dungarees rolled the garage door up in my head and had a root around (Sellpen thinks she’s played by Meryl Streep – what do you think? Who do you think would play this God in the movie adaptation. Because you know there’s going to be a movie adaptation.)

Want to get in on the fun? Head to Writer’s HQ and sign up. Then send me what you come up with. Happy writing!

In Praise of Dull Holidays

This began life as a series of letters to my partner.

***

My darling, I have never felt the drive to write to you more.
When I am released from my duties
I am tearing through pages of paper like a hungry
street urchin at a buffet.

I understand it now.
These writers who excursed to beautiful, desolate places to write their books
did not so for inspiration,
or to be diverted,
but precisely for the
divine boredom
a terrible holiday can give you,
where to dance a flight of fancy across a page
becomes the truly thrilling thing it ought to be.
I would recommend it to all struggling writers.
Perhaps I should do it every year.

Writers –
yes,
book a holiday
to get that writing done that you so desperately need to.

But book it somewhere dreadful.

Book the most teeth-grindingly dull thing you can think of –
a place whose activities,
menu
and clientèle
make you want to roll your eyes
and wither into a husk at the very thought.

Dread it,
dread the mundanity of this place before you book it.
And book in advance –
give your mind plenty of time to think up
more and more terrible iterations of this
crushingly beige place.

Ideally, go under duress –
let it be a work holiday,
or some sort of family obligation.

And I know it’s getting harder and harder to do,
but try and book somewhere with terrible phone service,
and a Wifi that is so patchy it’s more hassle trying to use it than not.

Then
tell a friend about this terrible place you’re going to,
someone who can delight in the horror of it with you.
Demand their pity.
Imagine
aloud with them,
over a cup of tea,
the devastating plateaus of boredom that await you.
Beg them to put you out of your misery now.

And then
when you go off on this holiday,
write that person every day.

Even if you cannot post it to them at the time –
in fact,
it’s almost better to save these letters and
deliver them in bulk,
by hand,
after the holiday.

Make real for them the horrors you imagine.
Describe to them the flavour of your boredom,
the texture of your ennui.
Share with them your pleasant surprises,
secret friends,
and the little things keeping you sane.

Make a game of it and make it ridiculous –
find a new theme or style for each day,
and write them
letters from prison,
chapters of noir,
Gothic memoriam poetry,
or high fantasy re-imaginings of your day.

For me it is like the opening of floodgates –
once I start writing like this, it’s hard to stop, it’s so much fun.
Look at me now –

I should in bed
asleep,
and I am writing to you
by lamplight
with the rain
hammering against the windows
because my spirits are too high
to be contained, and
the words bloom
fat and abundant in my head,
and if I don’t harvest the blooms now
they’ll have withered by morning,
or their scent will have changed unalterably.

Maybe it will not work for all writers,
but it works for me
and so must work for some:

Book a holiday you actively dread for its lack of stimulating activity,
and go with no one you love.
Embrace that fecund boredom
so rare now
in our world of screens and super-normal stimuli,
and watch your mind
make its own shapes for your delight.

It may not be writing,
but I am certain
the activity you fall to
in those bleak and pulseless moments
is one of your wellsprings of true joy,
and is worth discovering.

Be well.

Be bored!

Be brilliant.