The deadline of Dead Lines is not always what it seems.

I wrote three-hundred and forty-two words on Wednesday, in a hurry to meet my self-imposed dead-line.  I know, that was one hundred and fifty-eight short of my stated target, but hey, who’s counting?  I set words on the page this week, that’s what matters.

facesThey were not good words, but they weren’t bad.  Taken individually, I used some lovely ones.  Yes, I have favourites…’seriously’, ‘draped’, ‘however’, ‘softly’, are some of my current ones.

Thursday morning, I took out all those favourites plus a few more, to see if I had the beginnings of a story.  My word count shrank to two hundred and ninety eight.

I’d love to tell you that I discovered something worthwhile, but my phrases lacked an essential for successful storytelling, plot. I had a static character drifting around a landscape.  Where was the tension?  Nowhere.  What was at stake? Nothing.

Pah, I thought, spinning the page onto my personal slush-heap, so much for deadlines.  It was time I returned to Middlemarch.  People to see, actions to judge, ideas to question: to hypothesize.  This writer sculpted layers with her words.

Time passes.  Time….passes. (Do you see that?  Do you get it?)  Words, love ’em.

Later, in the crow black, slow black night, I dreamt.  (Sorry, told you I have favourites.)

Dawn, rosy fingered warning of storms ahead (okay, a little bit of poetic exaggeration here) and inspiration, because I wake with a thought.  A fragment of story was lodged within those words from Wednesday, and now I know what is at stake.

Good old subconscious, world within worlds within us.  Keep throwing in the material, and who knows what will come out.

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2 thoughts on “The deadline of Dead Lines is not always what it seems.

  1. Thank heavens for little subconscious activities – I too have a slush pile (that’s a great descriptor) and sometimes when I revisit it I don’t remember some of the words let alone the meanings hidden at the time of writing and am pleasantly surprised – but much more often I remember only too well and transfer those compositions to the slush plus pile (hoping they will decompose and go gentle into that good night called hard drive failure).

    Middlemarch calls, George has certainly raised the literary bar – did she write poetry too? – and attempting to find out how she does what she does is really fascinating. Did her subconscious work for her too?

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  2. The slush plus pile? I do like that – but as a latent hoarder I’m not so sure about the hard drive failure. I tend to find I only discover the importance of pieces of paper after I’ve thrown them away.

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