For almost two years now, scenes for my novel, Inevitable, have been popping into my head. Sometimes with frightening regularity. Sometimes sporadically. And even when they have not, usually if I have sat down with paper and pen for long enough, an idea has come. Not always a great one. Sometimes one I have later cut. But an idea, nonetheless.
But here is the thing now: I brainstorm. I write from prompts. I read about DC. I teach the guy who is the inspiration for my main character. I mostly still take the long train/tram journeys during which scenes used to come to me, randomly but often. I do all the things that used to work - though admittedly I haven't watched any West Wing in a few weeks - and yet inspiration does not strike.
But here is the thing now: I brainstorm. I write from prompts. I read about DC. I teach the guy who is the inspiration for my main character. I mostly still take the long train/tram journeys during which scenes used to come to me, randomly but often. I do all the things that used to work - though admittedly I haven't watched any West Wing in a few weeks - and yet inspiration does not strike.
I spent yesterday depressed about this: I've been so looking forward to six whole days hanging out with my novel. And then it occurred to me - the reason might well be a good one. The reason might be that there's nothing more to say. That the book is finished. So instead I am reading through, editing bits and pieces, cutting scenes, finding synonyms for beautiful and deleting instances of the word "suddenly".
And getting ready to post a triumphant Facebook status update.
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