Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 125

A Tidy Writer is a Productive Writer

A few weeks back, blogger Ali Hale of Aliventures posted an entry about clutter and creativity. What, I hear you ask, is a post about tidying doing on a blog loosely dedicated to writing and other creative endeavours? Well, I've come to realise that it's difficult to be truly creative when you're drowning in a sea of your own junk.



You see, I live in a studio flat. I know, I know, I've just shattered the illusion that I've made my supervillain lair under a volcano or in an abandoned tube station (or have I? maybe this is all just fiction......no, it's true) Problem is, studio flats are notoriously short on storage space - think of me as a lonely writer in a cold London garret, if that's what butters your muffin. I admit that I'm lucky since my landlord provided two wardrobes and a small chest of drawers, but the other storage units (and copious bookcases) are my own. Without them, I'd be wading through piles of books, DVDs and electrical items every time I wanted to cross the room.



Trouble is, despite this storage, I still seem to have clutter. I'm reasonably logical so I've divided this clutter into piles, clustered around the perimeter of the room, but lately it's really been getting to me that I have so much stuff - most of which I probably don't even need. I've noticed its effect on my output, too. I find that I write more on my lunch hour because the office is tidier. There's more of a sense of order, particularly in the room where I have my lunch. I'm not distracted by piles of books or photos that I have yet to put in my album. At home, any fleeting sense of order created by dividing the piles by 'theme' or 'content' is very much undermined by the chaos of having these dratted piles of things in the first place.



I've been telling myself for months now that I will "tidy up a bit" but then I've found myself distracted by something else. I'd find myself leaving work, all fired up to go through the flat like a dose of salts, only to get home tired and cross after a hellish commute (particularly those three hour commutes when the damned tube staff decide to go on strike). I'd look at the clutter, sigh deeply, and then pull out my sketchbook and start drawing instead. I think the only thing in my flat that I managed to tidy successfully was my yarn collection, though I think practicality was a large factor behind that particular adventure. (Ever tried to detangle fine mohair yarn? My tip? Don't.)



But lately I've been getting antsy about it all, so armed with Ali's post and infused with a sense of just simply 'wanting more space', I sat back and contemplated the contents of my flat. I like to point out that there is method to my madness and that if I desperately need something, I remember exactly where it is. Trouble is, there are lots of piles of things on the floor, and I can't remember what's in most of them because the stuff isn't important enough to remember. My logic ran that if I couldn't remember what was in the pile, chances are, I didn't need it. If I had, I would have stored it either with like objects, or kept it to hand. Still, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so I decided I needed The Battleplan.



I've divided my flat up into nine 'clutter zones', and I aim to tackle them one by one. As I clear them, my flat will therefore look tidier, providing more motivation to keep tidying, but it also makes it seem like less of a gargantuan task. I've cleared two of these, and I found myself recycling 80% of the contents, throwing away 15%, and keeping just 5%. (If you're wondering, it was all old magazines, newspaper clippings, countless coffee shop receipts or padded envelopes from things I've bought online, which I reuse when selling on eBay or Amazon) Those two spaces already seem massive, and it's such a good incentive for me to move onto the next one.



Strangely, by the time I've finished tidying, I feel fired up and ready to write again, as if removing the physical clutter in the room is enough to remove the mental clutter that blocks my motivation to write. Maybe it's the extra exercise, adding endorphins to the mix. Or maybe I'm just weird.

Friday Flash - The Dead Calm

Today's Fiction Friday prompt from the Write Anything website was;



Use this lyric from Shore Leave  to flavour your story: "Hong Kong drizzle on Cuban heels"

I decided to use it to tell the story of how Captain Scarlight got his ship. For more stories about Captain Scarlight, click here.



* * *

The rain pattered on the roof of the makeshift bar. Four men sat around a table. They clutched cards, and glared at each other. Nobody in the bar dared speak; all eyes were fixed on the card game in the corner.



"Whaddya got?" asked one man. Captain Jacob Gnarley. Thick blond hair curled down his back. Scars criss-crossed his face and arms. He kept stroking his goatee beard, and tapping the table. Sam Scarlight suspected it was his 'lucky' nervous tic.



"Two pair," replied another man. Barnabas Welmsley. A bald man who hadn't so much fallen out of the ugly tree, as chosen to live in an orchard of them.



"You, whaddya got?" asked Captain Gnarley.



He stared at Scarlight. The other man refused to look at him, his sullen face expressing his annoyance at losing so much. Scarlight recognised Sullen-Face as Swein, Captain Gnarley's First Mate.



"Um…er…um…it looks like I have a Royal Flush. That's good, isn't it?" asked Scarlight.



He laid the cards out on the pitted wooden table. Welmsley inspected them, and nodded his agreement. Scarlight did indeed have a Royal Flush. Captain Gnarley roared, and slammed his fist on the table.



"How can ye, a young pup, keep beating me so, eh?"



"Um…er…I suppose you might call it beginner's luck?"



"Another game!"



Captain Gnarley pounded the table again to emphasise his point. Scarlight hesitated before gathering the money from the centre. Even after 'losing' every third hand, he'd more than tripled the amount he brought with him. It didn't surprise him. Being the best poker player in London grew boring after a while, and now he hussled card games in Hong Kong. His tender age sucked in the old, grizzly players.



"Captain, you haven't got much left," said Swein.



"Nonsense! I am winning! Aren't I winning?"



The mugs of beer jumped on the table when he slammed his fist down again. Scarlight affected an expression of fear at the captain's temper, but also respect for his reputation.



It's just a pity his poker isn't as good as his sailing, he thought.



Swein dealt the cards. Scarlight paid no attention to his. He chose to watch the reaction of the others to their own cards. None of them understood the concept of bluffing. Swein grimaced at his cards, and Welmsley looked hopeful. The Captain looked confused.



The players swapped cards with those in the central pile. Swein almost twisted his face inside out in an effort to gain extra mileage from his grimace. Scarlight guessed his hands was worse. Welmsley's hope turned to annoyance, while the Captain remained baffled. Scarlight looked down at his cards. His face fell.



"Are ye all in?" asked the Captain.



"No. I fold," said Swein.



"Oh what's the point? I fold as well," said Welmsley.



He threw his cards across the table. Before they landed face down, Scarlight saw a three of clubs, a nine of diamonds and a six of hearts.



"Looks like it's just you and me, sonny," said the Captain. "What do ye put in?"



"Another forty, I think," said Scarlight. "Gosh, I hope I'm doing the right thing."



He glanced from his cards to the Captain, and back to his cards. He pushed his money into the centre of the table.



"I see yer forty, and raise ye sixty," said the Captain.



"Captain, that's all you have!" said Swein.



"Argh, quiet, Swein. Look at his face, his hand must be terrible," said the Captain.



"I don't know if it's bad or not...tell you what, I need to go soon so I'll see your sixty, and raise you the rest of my money," said Scarlight.



"Fine. My ship is more than equal to yer winnin's, boy."



"You can't bet the Dead Calm!" exclaimed Swein.



"I can, and I am. Do ye doubt me?"



"No, Captain."



"Show my yer hand, boy," said the Captain. "I'll wager ye can't beat my Three of a Kind!"



He laid out his hand. A two of clubs, a three of hearts and three Knaves fanned out on the table.



"Looks like I'll be going home in the Dead Calm after all!"



"Um…er….no you won't," said Scarlight.



He laid out his Full House. The Captain's face fell. Swein fought a smirk, and Welmsley spluttered in amazement.



"My Full House beats your Three of a Kind, so I'll be taking the Dead Calm, thank you very much."



Scarlight stood up. Swein stood up with him.



"Swein! Ye would leave me here, and go with this young pup?"



"Aye, Jacob, I will. I am the First Mate, I go where the ship goes," replied Swein. A smile hovered around his thin lips.



"So sorry about this, Gnarley, but all's fair in love and gambling," said Scarlight.



He headed towards the door, ignoring Gnarley's pleas for another hand. Swein held open the door for him.



"Where are we going, Captain Scarlight?"



"The Caribbean!"