A quick stroll around the yard in the brisk
October air cleared her mind… a little. Her third cup of Earl Grey cooled by
the keyboard as she struggled to find the thread. The one she’d pull on to
untie the knot that held back the story trapped there inside her head.
The players are all there. Each character
fleshed out and real. The world they inhabit teems with life from the depths of
the seas to the arid plains and each village in between. She knows them all. If
you ask her about any character, their background, their appearance, or what
they likely had for breakfast, she could tell you, in detail. She can describe
the one white whisker of the elder moorcat or the heady scent of lavender in
the laundry at Castle Drosia.
Why then, you may ask, can’t she sit down and put those
thoughts together into the novel that’s in essence already written? Michael asks
that annoyingly often. He’s not wrong but still has no concept of how difficult
the process is for her. The fact is, she doesn’t know why the words no longer
flow from her fingertips as the story dances around in her head. Is it perhaps
too much? The story has become a saga with many moving parts and countless
characters. Simplify, you say? She’d love to, but the story now has a life of
its’ own. It bangs against the inside of her skull and boils out in no
particular order.
Ah, the writer's life.
