Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Write: A Room with a View

Exercise:  Imagine you  have just walked into a room not your own.  It could belong to a neighbor, a waiting room, a stranger, or an imaginary being.  Maybe you walked into your subconscious' room.  Maybe you don't know where you are yet. 

Wherever you walked, begin to describe it.  Write what you see, what you feel, what you smell.  What does the room say to you?  Is the person living here a person you would like to meet?  Does it remind you of a relative?  Does it make you want to curl up and sleep or run away and scream? 

The door opens with the faintest of squeaks and closes softly behind me.  I gaze around the room, brows furrowed in confusion.  There seems to be everything in here and no order to it.  The large room looks like a small library has been turned into a home office.  Bookshelves line three walls, pausing only for the door and light fixtures.  It should be gloomy, but the wall of windows makes it anything but.

The wall of glass pulls me farther into the room, stepping around a delicately carved chair that is home to a pile of blankets.  The windows give a magnificent view of a wild wood.  Branches sway in the breeze and somewhere, far off, there is a sound of a waterfall.  There, and there, a bird flutters between the leaves, dancing to the song of a mate. 

I watch him until he disappears into the greenery, then I turn back to the room.  An open book beckons from the large desk.  I run my fingertips over the warm wood and move behind it, spinning the globe on it's axle and watching the continents spin about.  With a smile, I raise my eyes to the rest of the room.

I can tell from here that the pile of blankets is nothing of the sort. It is a golden lion's mane stretched across the chair.  Where did that come from and why?  Maybe the owner went on safari and brought back a souvenir.  Maybe they were wearing for some golden coat.  Or maybe they had to fight a lion and won.

A laugh escapes my lips at my imagination and I shake my head.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the telescope next to the window.  On tripod legs, its body is angled upwards to spy into the heavens once night falls.  The shelf behind it is full of star charts and globes painted with scenes of the constellations.  A model of the solar system hangs from the ceiling and calls me.  I reach up and barely touch the moon.  How many people have been inspired by that wish?  How many stories have been written?  How many discoveries have been made?

With a sigh, I pull myself away from my reverie and pick up the stack of papers I was sent for.  Neat and orderly on the desk, the notes sing themselves off the page.  Just looking at them is beauty.  Hearing them played is exquisite.

I pull the door closed behind me with a wistful sigh, shutting off the room of wonder and inspiration.  Thus the life of working for a Muse.

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