Baths and Writing

I’m starting my last full day of my week at Varuna Writers’ House (Katoomba NSW). I still have one goal to achieve, starting a new story.  Yesterday, I read over notes and scribblings, hoping a story idea would leap out. A few things were of interest, and I will jot down some ideas  today. This morning, I fulfilled another goal, to restart my daily journel after a couple of months slacking off. I again found the pleasure of writing longhand as I reflected on my week here,  my progress, the other writers, etc.

The Inspirational Bath

In my previous post,  I wrote about assessing my early stories and checking them for a heartbeat. Then about deciding to revise one, likening this to putting it into the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) for treatment. Yesterday afternoon, after I worked on the story extensively, it fell apart. Was it my use of medical terminology in my previous posts that made me feel like a surgeon whose patient had died in theatre?

What to do? V. I. Warshawski, Sara Paretsky’s crime-sleuth character, had the perfect solution for times like these. In an early story, she thinks something along these lines: There’s not much in life that a hot bath won’t cure.

So in the middle of a glorious, warm, spring  afternoon, I take a bath. But not ‘just’ a bath because remember, I’m here at Varuna.

Varuna, the former home of Australian author Eleanor Dark, was built in the 1920s. It is large, plain two-story house in the ’20s style.

The bathroom is the original.  Traditional medium-sized yellow square tiles run halfway up the walls. A band of green tiles link  the wal tiles to the ones on the floor. The floor tiles are about the size of dominoes, and three colours are used, making  the floor a mosaic of tan, gray and green.

The ceilings are high, very high, with one small ceiling light. There’s a single small window, clear glass in the top half, and pebbled  ‘modesty’ glass below.  The wash basin and tiled shower are original; the toilet is modern.

And then there’s the BATH.

Its colour is a  mid-green, like one of my favourite green stones, chrysoprase.  The bath is not stand-alone but set into the wall, beside the shower. It is encased on two sides by the same yellow wall tiles.

The bath is long and wide and so deep. Inside, the back slopes slightly but the other sides are dead straight.

It is plain—no arm rests, spa sprays or other modern bath trappings. My modern bathtub at home seems toy-like, slight,  in comparison. The grand severity of Varuna’s bath reminds me of an Egyptian sarcophagus. Or the baptismal tank that I waded into when young, dressed in a white gown,  scared and excited.

The connection seems relevant:  My story needs to to be resurrected or buried.

When I entered the bathroom, I had set the huge black rubber plug into the drain and turned  the old taps on full blast. Now, ready to step in,  I find the bath is not even half full.  A flicker of guilt—am I draining the hot water tank? But I imagine the others in their rooms, industriously writing.

I sit on bath’s broad edge, waiting for the water to rise. Then I add  bath crystals and step in. When I stretch out, my feet don’t touch the end.  Bliss.

I read a magazine.  Soak. Watch the pebbled glass reflect bright flakes of afternoon sunlight. Listen to the warbling magpies  in the tall gums. A warm breeze enters, carrying  the sweet peppery scent of Varuna’s old roses.

The water cools.   I use its buoyancy to lever myself out. I dry off.

When I return to my study and pick up my draft, things have changed. My story isn’t moribund, and the medical analogy does not suit. It is a story, like any other, and my role is to think about it, play with it, explore, shape, and stay with it.

Now after my wonderful bath, I can do this.