Inspired

Inspiration for any form of writing comes from curiosity, imagination, memories, experiences, emotion and lots of elbow grease. All mixed and blended, or maybe tossed and turned, characters and story step forward from other lives. Aside from the many other forms of writing, this blog entry is about a particular story I wrote in June of 2007. Three events over the last twenty four hours gave me the inspiration for this morning's blog post. None had little significance at the time, but in combination for my writing life, of great significance. The first was when I read a relatively short story I had written in 2007 while clearing the clutter of an old journal. The next event, a very humorous YouTube interview with Neil Gaiman, a prolific author of fantasy and sci-fi for novels, comics and movies. In a Q & A, he was asked where inspiration came from and did provide the answer that really, there is no answer. The third occurrence for me, more of a recognition than an event, was the realization that my journalling, while in the past allowed me to write little stories and musings, had returned to little more than the proverbial ‘brain dump’. Not really very inspired! In that journal entry, I did muse on the inspiration for a story I had just penned, suggesting to myself that it was ‘probably the pair of boots I saw last night'.  I slept on all of it to waken this morning with the concept for this post, including my story. Edited and newly titled, here is Scuffed and Worn:

Scuffed and Worn

The tall black leather boots with once shiny silver buckles up the sides stood at her bedside. They had once been stiff with newness and pride. Scratched and worn, they fell over open themselves, the leather soft with age and wear. Emma sat on the edge of the bed, her hands holding her up, elbow locked. Her thin, dank hair hung down in greasy strands covering her face and shoulders. She had once been proud and tall too. Tears dripped, mingling with old makeup and sweat from her brow. Her room was hot and stuffy. The sheets were soaked. Crumpled cigarettes and scattered tobacco seemed to have escaped the dampness. It didn’t matter though. Maybe sunlight would help and maybe someone out there would have matches. Dragging the only piece of comfort into her trembling hands she stuffed the cigarettes into her pocket, being careful not to break another one. She had only three left. Emma pulled on the boots which had come with her on her travels into the darkness of the street. Where she once strode, tall, proud and confident down the catwalks of NYC and London, now she was barely able to hold herself up against the wall. The boots were heavy and, with buckles undone in her haste to get away from the smell of sweat, they were poor support for her trembling body. A last piece of rebellion and a fading ember of her old fire insisted that she wear them, no matter who told her that she would ‘break an ankle someday!’.  Every bone in her body had been broken from time to time over the years since she walked the world’s catwalks  lined by flash bulbs capturing her life and passion. She was now back in this dark and frightening place to detox once more from all the chemicals she knew were killing her. With a quiet, choking sob, she also knew that they were the only things that made her feel normal. Only now, it only made her seem normal inside her head and she could only function for the short times when the chemicals coursed through her body. It was becoming harder and harder to find them. Dealers were always demanding more of her or of any money she had. The first time that she used - oh, what an awesome feeling that had been. There had been no words to describe it. It was a feeling that effortlessly lifted her past off and away. All the mundane parts of those catwalk days vanished as though never there. She only wanted to know the crowd applauding and the flash of camera lightbulbs. It was so close to the feeling that cocaine had given her. It was the preparation before her grand entrance that she had railed against. There, in the little patio area with the sunshine on her back, warming her cold, cold bones, she was lost in the haze of memories. She let the cigarette smoke fill her lungs and wrap around her head. The long catwalk. Her dressing room. The dresses and ensembles. Tears welled up in her eyes. That was where she got her boots. A gift from one of the couturiers. The only one who had treated her kindly and gently. They were beautiful together. Just like her boots. A matched pair., He had been everything to her. Had literally clothed her in all the finery that he created. Tears were now streaming down her face as she remembered that her first hit of cocaine had come from that kindness. Since then she had been trapped. Once the cocaine called more insistently than bright lights and audience adulation, the catwalks of NYC and London dwindled to fashion shows in smaller and smaller centres until she was more than just a model - to men and women alike. Never had she been approached by clients when she had been on the big stages. The models were protected from unwanted advances. With that first offer of cocaine, also came the suggestion that there would be more. And there was more, but only more heartache to be numbed and drowned, and with more than just cocaine........

......ran out of words (At least that's what my journal told me)

“The process of writing can be magical…Mostly 

it’s a process of putting one word after another.”

~ Neil Gaiman, (from Goodreads site)