Only a short one from me this month, because in the reduced
amount of time I have to write since beginning my stint of parental ‘leave’, a
new creature has suddenly emerged, and it is demanding attention. It’s
familiar, but I haven’t seen it for a while.
At first when it appeared, I was
suspicious. It seemed too good to be true. I looked at it more closely and realised
that, like a loveable dog at a rescue centre that turns out to be fully grown
and completely unruly, it might quickly prove to be a lot of effort for not
much apparent gain. But it was such an attractive prospect that I couldn’t help
myself. I opened the cage door and took it home.
‘It’ was a completely new story that I really wanted to
write. Just that. I’ve finished my last contracted book, so was thinking – I
have to write something really special, now, to attract the attention of a
publisher. Trouble was, I had plenty of ideas, but… I just really couldn’t
summon up the will or desire to begin writing them. It got so bad that I found
myself ranting the other day about how I spent my time encouraging others to
write, telling them it was the route to freedom and happiness, but I was a
complete fraud, because it wasn’t like that for me at all. I had to be so
self-conscious about everything I wrote that I hardly ever enjoyed writing
anymore, and I couldn’t see that I ever would again.
But here I am, free. No publishing contract. If this new story
is no good, I don’t even have to show it to anyone. It’s like those old days of
being a child and writing purely for my own pleasure. Of course I still have
all the more grown up responsibilities. It’s just that – somehow – for a magic
few moments, I’ve managed to forget them. It’s as if I’ve struggled out of a
cave and come blinking into the sunlight. How often does this happen in a
writing life? In mine – maybe just enough.
I’m interested in how I did manage to get out, but I feel
that I don’t have time to look back at the moment and understand it. It’s a
shame – I think understanding might help a lot when next I duck my head back
underground and lose sight of the sun. But the story is rushing at me,
demanding my attention. It’s telling me it might not be anything special –
there are plenty of books about ponies already. But, like the untrained dog,
loveable and wild, it’s leaping at my heels and telling me to throw it a ball –
it’ll run and chase it and bring it back to me, and I’ll throw it again, and
it’ll chase again, and oh, we’ll have so much fun –
Planning? Structure? Research?
Nope, this time I’m running with it.
(photos posed by a model - with thanks to Layla)
