I had one of my favourite ever experiences the other day.
Not my favourite, I haven't had that for some time and don't ever really expect to fully have it again for a longer time, if at all (No, it's not a sex thing.. this is something you can't buy, booze, charm or trick your way into...)
This experience is the thunderbolt of inspiration. That moment when the idea for an entire project forms in your mind, fully formed and glistening like a jewell. For me it was the idea for a new book. For some people it will be a song, or a poem, or the way they want to build their new shed, or how well theyu could restore that car... but for me it's a book.
I've written a few of these incidentally, and the reason you've never read them, or indeed heard of them is because as yet, nobody has ever wanted to publish one...
(Quick run down:
1 - Too weird, too personal, and too dependent on reading a load of Franz Kafka for a fairly important plot point. It also started somewhere in the middle of the story because I was an awkward young man at the time.
2 - REALLY WEIRD. I would like to try and re-write this sometime, with the benefit of a much clearer mind, but at the moment I would be scared to let anyone read it, because they'd be worried about me.. and those around me.
3 - Too personal and quite clunky in the old writing. I utterly understand why nobody would publish this, it being a Zombie Novel that was actually about a man's fear of Pregnancy... I enjoyed writing it though, because it finally purged all the weird writing tics I'd picked up while Writing Book 2...
4/5 Didn't really finish redrafting these, but who knows... I might retrieve them from the trunk and submit them to someone) They will get finished one day, but to me the subtext is so glaring that I can't see past it to do the story.. at the moment... when I get some distance from that aspect I'll probably be able to finish them.
So Now I'm on number six. And it arrived in a whole, like a brain jolt. I sat on my bed grinning, then laughing out loud. I fell back and threw my hands above my head and simply beamed. This is probably an inappropriate reaction, to be honest, as this story is based around a tragic premature death of someone's cherished friend, and their ruminations on that. Yes I'm taking a step outside my comfort zone and doing a weepy. A weepy with only real human characters and no unusual plot contrivances. Just a guy and his story.
Ah.. sounds lovely and refreshing...
The problem is the idea will very likely never be that beautiful again.
The first draft process is always difficult, like an excavation. You dig it out of your brain, but it's surrounded by soil and rocks and bones. It doesn't look anything like the sleek beast you had in mind. (Yes, I'm switching metaphors now)
So on the second draft you get to work. Chiseling, drilling, polishing.. paring it down to gleaming bone. It's death head grin shines at you. But it still isn't the animal you had.
The next drafts are putting on layers of fat and muscle.. maybe fur if it's that kind of beast. You put in a heart to beat the stories rhythm and some eyes so it can see where it's going and some guts.
And eventually, although it rarely looks exactly how you originally pictured it, you still love it, like the badly stuffed Gorilla in Wollaton Hall (And the story of it's capture on the sign next to it that always makes you want to cry)
Then you take it out for a few walks.
Your friends will want to be nice. They'll coo and pat it and maybe even take it for a walk themselves.
But it isn't them you want to impress. You need to get it out there. Into the races. It needs to compete. If you give it to a pro they may have someone who will give you a few ideas of how to make it leaner, more aggressive, more of a fighter.
Or they might just take one look at it and decide to kill it with the sharp edge of a shovel. As has happened to my plethora of poor malformed chimera.
This is the process I am at the start of. Why do I do it?
Well.. the fantasy of being a 'big shot' writer is quite fun and keeps me entertained in the office when the 100th Student has come in to have their documents checked. But that doesn't cover it, if it was I could just buy a lottery ticket each week, have a more lucrative fantasy and save myself a lot of effort and heartache.
I don't even do it as a 'compulsion'. It was like that when I was younger. I would write constantly. Mainly short pieces that were impenetrable and full of 'writery tricks'. I don't feel that now, I get irritable and feel disappointed in myself when I haven't written anything for a while.. but that's about it...
I don't even do it because I feel I have something so earth-shattering to say that the world simply must pay attention. (To Clarify, I think it would if it knew what was good for it, but I am too old and cynical to believe the world would even care what was good for it)
No I do it for the same reason I do the music.. and the image manipulation stuff.. and the silly jokes and the other thing...
I do it because I do it
I do it because I enjoy it.
I do it because I couldn't imagine not having those moments.
... and that's worth the heartache...
(And what a metaphor for life.. see kids.. I'm good at this writer bit, tune in next time for more heavy handed subtext and clues to the plot of an unwritten novel!)
Not my favourite, I haven't had that for some time and don't ever really expect to fully have it again for a longer time, if at all (No, it's not a sex thing.. this is something you can't buy, booze, charm or trick your way into...)
This experience is the thunderbolt of inspiration. That moment when the idea for an entire project forms in your mind, fully formed and glistening like a jewell. For me it was the idea for a new book. For some people it will be a song, or a poem, or the way they want to build their new shed, or how well theyu could restore that car... but for me it's a book.
I've written a few of these incidentally, and the reason you've never read them, or indeed heard of them is because as yet, nobody has ever wanted to publish one...
(Quick run down:
1 - Too weird, too personal, and too dependent on reading a load of Franz Kafka for a fairly important plot point. It also started somewhere in the middle of the story because I was an awkward young man at the time.
2 - REALLY WEIRD. I would like to try and re-write this sometime, with the benefit of a much clearer mind, but at the moment I would be scared to let anyone read it, because they'd be worried about me.. and those around me.
3 - Too personal and quite clunky in the old writing. I utterly understand why nobody would publish this, it being a Zombie Novel that was actually about a man's fear of Pregnancy... I enjoyed writing it though, because it finally purged all the weird writing tics I'd picked up while Writing Book 2...
4/5 Didn't really finish redrafting these, but who knows... I might retrieve them from the trunk and submit them to someone) They will get finished one day, but to me the subtext is so glaring that I can't see past it to do the story.. at the moment... when I get some distance from that aspect I'll probably be able to finish them.
So Now I'm on number six. And it arrived in a whole, like a brain jolt. I sat on my bed grinning, then laughing out loud. I fell back and threw my hands above my head and simply beamed. This is probably an inappropriate reaction, to be honest, as this story is based around a tragic premature death of someone's cherished friend, and their ruminations on that. Yes I'm taking a step outside my comfort zone and doing a weepy. A weepy with only real human characters and no unusual plot contrivances. Just a guy and his story.
Ah.. sounds lovely and refreshing...
The problem is the idea will very likely never be that beautiful again.
The first draft process is always difficult, like an excavation. You dig it out of your brain, but it's surrounded by soil and rocks and bones. It doesn't look anything like the sleek beast you had in mind. (Yes, I'm switching metaphors now)
So on the second draft you get to work. Chiseling, drilling, polishing.. paring it down to gleaming bone. It's death head grin shines at you. But it still isn't the animal you had.
The next drafts are putting on layers of fat and muscle.. maybe fur if it's that kind of beast. You put in a heart to beat the stories rhythm and some eyes so it can see where it's going and some guts.
And eventually, although it rarely looks exactly how you originally pictured it, you still love it, like the badly stuffed Gorilla in Wollaton Hall (And the story of it's capture on the sign next to it that always makes you want to cry)
Then you take it out for a few walks.
Your friends will want to be nice. They'll coo and pat it and maybe even take it for a walk themselves.
But it isn't them you want to impress. You need to get it out there. Into the races. It needs to compete. If you give it to a pro they may have someone who will give you a few ideas of how to make it leaner, more aggressive, more of a fighter.
Or they might just take one look at it and decide to kill it with the sharp edge of a shovel. As has happened to my plethora of poor malformed chimera.
This is the process I am at the start of. Why do I do it?
Well.. the fantasy of being a 'big shot' writer is quite fun and keeps me entertained in the office when the 100th Student has come in to have their documents checked. But that doesn't cover it, if it was I could just buy a lottery ticket each week, have a more lucrative fantasy and save myself a lot of effort and heartache.
I don't even do it as a 'compulsion'. It was like that when I was younger. I would write constantly. Mainly short pieces that were impenetrable and full of 'writery tricks'. I don't feel that now, I get irritable and feel disappointed in myself when I haven't written anything for a while.. but that's about it...
I don't even do it because I feel I have something so earth-shattering to say that the world simply must pay attention. (To Clarify, I think it would if it knew what was good for it, but I am too old and cynical to believe the world would even care what was good for it)
No I do it for the same reason I do the music.. and the image manipulation stuff.. and the silly jokes and the other thing...
I do it because I do it
I do it because I enjoy it.
I do it because I couldn't imagine not having those moments.
... and that's worth the heartache...
(And what a metaphor for life.. see kids.. I'm good at this writer bit, tune in next time for more heavy handed subtext and clues to the plot of an unwritten novel!)
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