Wednesday, October 23, 2019

Journal Entry on a Weird Day

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.