Candlelit Creativity

For reasons unknown, we lost power in the house last night. No rain, no snow, nor gale-force winds upon which to blame the unfortunate affair. Perhaps the root of the matter was that brief moment in the afternoon when I stared at the multitude of candles in my room and wondered when I would ever get around to lighting them. I must have jinxed us all.
As a result of the loss of light, my sister, the cellist, was forced to requisition two of my fruity-smelling jars of wax to add to her own, all for the sake of continuing to practice. We briefly discussed the romanticism of it all, going back to days when musicians were forced to practice by candlelight. Not that either of us were alive at a time when electric lights did not exist, but the idea of it was still heartwarming, if only because all of us knew that this was not a permanent situation. It is nice to visit the past. but dwelling in it leaves a bad taste in one's mouth, or strain on the eyes, as it were.

In contrast to her electricity-free endeavors, I spent the duration of the black-out camped out at my desk, with my laptop running on a full battery and the light of the screen illuminating the darkness of my bedroom. In a house without power, I focused instead on the generator called the mind, allowing words and ideas to drive a storyline forward. The result was the rewriting of the first three chapters of Michael (working title), a piece of young adult fiction over which I have slaved for the better part of a semester only to find that I absolutely hated the introduction. There is an art to young adult fiction, wherein one must limit verbosity without oversimplifying the text. It is also a trial to one who tends to "overwrite." And so, in the company of my laptop and a backdrop of faint cello music, I deleted thousands of words and experiences to start anew. Let us hope that I have struck somewhere closer to balance this time around.