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In Julia Cameron’s The Vein of Gold, she exhorts her students to “Kill a Creative Monster” from our past. I did that exercise and this is the story that came out of it.
The Escape
Sydney’s parents, the king and queen, do not figure into this story, so you don’t need to know anything about them. I mean, they were the king and queen, so they weren’t really parents. And anyway, this is not about them or Sydney’s relationship to them. (It never is until much, much later, is it.) Their lives were consumed with the dealings of the court.
They wore Sydney like an adornment, an enticement, a calculated enhancement to the machinery of their royal endeavors.
She was sick to death of it. The stilted choreography of her highborn ways stifled any real dance she might have done with her life. Scripted conversations eclipsed real connection. No one ever spoke a word askance. Everyone mastered the art of never making contact.
Sydney wanted contact.
The sun beat down hard on the courtyard of the castle and whoever could find themselves inside was glad for it. Midsummer Festival was in full swing, and the village was alive with jugglers, acrobats, trained monkeys and the like.
