My husband flew out of state for work and will be gone a month. Last night we stayed at a nice hotel near the airport and ate out, which is a rarity for us. We didn’t recognize half of the things so artfully displayed on our plates. And when my husband left in the dark wee hours this morning, I stayed in the hotel until checkout time. (After all, we paid a lot for those hours!) I took advantage of the quiet, alone-ness, and lack of distraction, to work on writing.
In the past I have been a very organic writer. The idea flows in, usually following a ‘what if’ question, and off I go, along for the ride the characters take me on. There’s a reason I called this blog the story river, and it’s not because I outline in detail. I usually know the very ending before I know the story, as if I picture this final dramatic moment, and then backtrack to figure out how to get there. Admittedly I feel guilty that I don’t outline, but when I try to, the story dies, as if the story feels that since it’s been told in outline form it doesn’t need me anymore.
Back at the hotel this morning though, I sat very fearfully in front of the computer and only managed two short paragraphs. I can feel the arcs of this story, like soft wool I need to spin into threads. I can see how I want it to be. In the past, right now, I’d be deep in that world, writing furiously. Instead I’m approaching the words way too tentatively.
The oncologist told me the creative side of me wasn’t killed in radiation, and I believe him because I do see writing coming back, and this blog has helped tremendously with that. However, it’s one thing to rather timidly approach a blog of a few paragraphs, and another to take on a novel. I am horribly afraid that if I start I will find the writer has not been resurrected after all. I am horribly afraid that if I don’t start, something that is extremely important to me might never come back.
I don’t know where this particular story river is going to take me, but I’m beginning to think that I’m thinking too much. It might be time to open up my arms and tell the characters, ‘possess me, whisper your story to me’ and just pick up the damn pen.