Like almost every other blogger on WordPress I consider myself as I writer. I don’t have anything published (I’m pretty sure a poem I wrote about a cat when I was nine doesn’t count) but I write, therefore I am a writer. Often I would start a story, and think it was amazing, before I had another idea and moved onto the next one. I started a project about a year ago, when I was inspired by Margaret Atwood and by Youth Theatre sessions that I took on the weekend. It was that story that I submitted to a writing competition around the end of December 2013. And then I left it alone, and hadn’t written anything new for months. Until now.
I guess I was using university to take myself away from my second of three passions. The other is acting. I had already taken myself out of acting as I didn’t like the society at university. Then it clicked. I wasn’t going to give up on writing, and particularly not this story which I had been obsessing with since I started, collecting books, and articles to help me, creating maps and characters and their stories. So this week I started to write it again, from scratch, so that I could do the best job I could.
The problem is I’m obsessing over it again. Why did I stop writing it?! In some senses I had never forgotten about it, there was a niggling in my mind that told me to keep going, but I didn’t act upon it. Perhaps I wanted to start again when I had a fresh mind, or perhaps I was just lazy. But then I spent the past couple of days reading Divergent and my story sprung back to life at the mention of double yellow lines. So here we are. I’m not complaining. I LOVE writing. But today I have a Latin exam, and I couldn’t get to sleep anyway, having thrashed around bed for two hours. But the thing is inspiration struck just as I was about to sleep, for a scene.
It would be perfect for character development my brain called to me, as it was a problem I had. So I noted the idea quickly on my phone, writing a quick paragraph or two. But now I had it in my head, and it wasn’t going anywhere. It was all I could think about. So I spent another hour thrashing around bed, trying to stop thinking so that I could get some shut eye before my exam, but this thing was screaming to be written. So I gave up on sleep at six o clock in the morning, at least coffee is a thing, and took my laptop and have now written it out into something proper. What was a quick paragraph of about seven sentences of dialogue has quickly turned into two-thousand words and an hour of writing as I listened to movie soundtracks. I’m happy to be writing again. I’m not just an archaeologist. But couldn’t my subconscious mind decide to do it at a different time?