Inspiration

Seiichi had a brilliant idea to go out to the riverside and spend an afternoon working on something creative—him with his watercolour painting, me with my writing. His back was directly pressed up against mine and I could feel how deeply involved he was with his painting. His arm moved around in a fluid motion as he painted on the canvas in front of him, trying to capture what was in front of him. It was a bright day out with the sun peaking through the clouds and a gentle breeze passing through.

"Ugh..."

I was utterly stuck and unsure of what to write. I had so many drafts on my laptop in the works, but no desire to finish any of them. They were all in various states of completeness with thousands of words each with the plots all fleshed out and yet I couldn't bring myself to continue. I leaned back and looked up towards the sky.

"Something wrong, ?" he asked me without turning around.

"I can't bring myself to write anything," I moaned. "Why is this so hard?"

"I think you're just burning yourself out," he mused. "You're pressuring yourself to finish what you started, but that's not good for creativity at all."

"Easy for you to say," I mumbled. "All you do is paint what's in front of you, Seiichi."

"En plein air painting is a lot harder than just painting what you see in front of you," he responded in a sing-songy tone. "Unlike still life, nature moves."

"I wish there was something like that for writing," I continued to complain. "Writing down mundane scenes doesn't add anything."

"Are you sure?" he questioned. "I find that there's a lot of good prose out there of the most typical actions that people don't think twice about."

"For example?"

"I don't have anything specific in mind," he laughed, "but I think that's something a lot of contemporary Japanese writers do, right?"

"You may have a point," I admitted, "however..."

"The scene doesn't fit anything you're writing in particular, hm?" he realized. "I wouldn't be too hard on yourself for not finishing something, . I leave a lot of paintings unfinished all the time."

"Yeah, but I just feel bad about not finishing these," I moped. "I promised some of these things would be done a long time ago for people, but..."

"It's not like anyone paid you for them, did they?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then, what's the rush?" he interrupted. "Whoever they're supposed to be for, I'm sure they'll understand that great art takes time."

"Seiichi, really," I snorted, "I'm not that good that I can call what I do 'art'."

"Why must every artist put their own work down?" Seiichi bemoaned dramatically. "I could never write like you do just like you could never paint like I can. You are just as much of an artist as I am, ."

"You're too sweet for your own good, Seiichi," I lamented.

"Why not write something small and short?" he suggested. "No more than a thousand words. Something with little to no plot. Ease yourself into it."

"Something with no plot?" I parroted back. "That might not be a bad idea."

"Of course, it's not a bad idea." I could hear him grin audibly.

"Okay, can I take a peek and look at your painting?" I requested. "Maybe it'll help me find inspiration to write something."

"I suppose I'll let you see it," he agreed, "though, it's only because I like you."

I set my laptop down on the ground beside me and turned around to peek over Seiichi's shoulder. He wasn't even remotely painting what was in front of him, but rather what was behind him the entire time—me.

"Um, that's not... I thought you were painting the riverside?" I said, confused.

"Like I said: nature moves," he reminded me.

"I'm not nature," I pointed out.

"Incorrect," he answered, "all living things are inherently part of nature—including us. I capture the most beautiful thing I see in nature in my work."

I felt my face heat up. "Seiichi..."

"What?" There was a mischievous grin on his lips as he kissed me playfully. "I can't help it. You are the most beautiful thing I see, ."

"You're so sappy, Seiichi," I smiled. "I think I know what I want to write, now."

"And what might that be?"

"You'll just have to read it later," I huffed.