This is an entirely self-indulgent post. So self-indulgent, in fact, that I’m not going to share this anywhere. Really, it’s just for me.
“There are moments that you’ll remember for the rest of your life and there are moments that you think you’ll remember for the rest of your life, and it’s not often they turn out to be the same moment.” — Maggie Stiefvater, The Scorpio Races
I had an idea the other day. Well, really a collision of a number of ideas in one big explosion, spitting out plot and character and setting all at once. Where one moment I didn’t have a story, the next I had a whole novel, from beginning to end.
Ideas on their own are flat, useless things. They don’t become something until you start to write them. Maybe this idea will go nowhere, maybe it will fizzle out, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels big and important and mine.
Today, I spent all morning searching for the perfect notebook. You know, the one that feels right. I found it:
This afternoon, I wrote the first lines. Not the opening lines, but the first ones. And oh, they were lovely.
So, I’m writing this because one day I might want to remember standing there in the kitchen with a mug in my hand, the spicy scent of chai in the air, the sound of the Fringe theme song playing in the next room. My housemate is home with a new baby, and that show is her connection to the world, a small escape between feed times and nappy changes. I’ve been thinking of it a lot lately, the way a sci-fi show can make me cry with the depth of its characterization. I’ve also been thinking of unusual story structures and finding ways to push myself as a writer. And I’ve always wanted to write a story with a very limited setting, like an elevator, perhaps, or a train. And suddenly, it appears. The idea.
It’s a good one.
Happy Valentines Day!