Some days I dream of an ideal place where the writing would come to me in a constant flow, words that give an appearance of being picked up by a tong in a pincer grip and placed carefully in between sentences. What gives way to such fantasies is when I read about writers and how their idea took seed and germinated into a blooming plant- their most famous books. So, where will it be I imagine? Is it going to be in my study which will be a sprawling library, my desk by the window that will overlook a road and tall trees, or is it going to be in an apple orchard shed just like how Deborah Levy defines in her memoir? The place where Hot Milk, Swimming Home, and her memoir were first thought of and written.
But here’s the thing about dreams and reality. Very often the real punctures the hallucinated pricks it and bursts the bubble so the Eureka moments can find a way to enter. They lack the quality of our fantasies but like an amoeba take a shape, a shape with no definition. As I keep my visions afloat, of the sprawling space, my desk, the lush green, and vividly imagine the steam rising from my cup of tea, in reality, my Eureka moments come in sudden gushes when I am in a shower mumbling to myself as an idea strikes, or clearing my bowel movements, holding a plank or doing my squat set! Last time, my mind shrieked “Eureka” when I was on a walk with my family and immediately hurried back home because the storm of thoughts brewing in my mind needed an outlet and a structure. Only, mine wasn’t as embarrassing as Archimedes’ would have been- straight out of the bathtub, naked, dripping water and landing into the king’s palace.
How I wish just like my dreams my words would be buoyant enough, but they drown sometimes, at others vaporize, fizzling, leaving a thin strand of shaky grey hue making me question their volume, weight, and displacement. But, on good days they buoy and adhere to my principle of buoyancy.