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.
They 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.