How many great novels were never written because someone was too lazy to jot down an idea?
Today I was the victim of a sudden, violent burst of glorious inspiration. I do believe others thought me insane as I grinned and giggled mischievously to myself and scribbled frantic notes down on the nearest piece of paper.
My former writing partner got in touch with me the other night, saying that if we wanted to co-write a second musical, he may be able to supply a space for performance. Instantly, all thoughts of future homework flew out the window and ran away down the fire escape. Once more into that lovely, magical breech . . . And this from the girl who swore never to write a play again.
When writing out character profiles, I never include a section labeled “Personality”. I jot down the character’s quirks, her fashion style, her physical appearance, education, and relationships with other characters. Then, with a good grasp of the basics, I set her free on the page and allow her to introduce her personality to me herself.
This overwhelming ache of loneliness must be utilized in some way – perhaps I will begin a new story for the sole purpose of creating an outlet for this violent, all-encompassing emotion.
Sometimes, when one finds that person who is extremely similar to you, with all the same likes and dislikes, one begins to question whether or not they are indeed the original character they initially believed. This makes me wonder if my protagonists all feel cheapened when I give them similar flaws and personality quirks.
There is a beautiful little bookshop on the corner with a view of a busy street. As I sat there today, drinking a black coffee and watching the numerous pedestrians walking by completely unaware of me, I felt as though I had stumbled upon a veritable trove of potential story characters.
My new bookshelf at school consists of The Art of Fiction, Fiction Writers’ Workshop, The Art of Dramatic Writing, Writing for the Stage, and Escaping into the Open. No, I am not taking any creative writing courses this semester, these are for pleasure reading. . .
I cannot bear middles. I dislike writing about them almost as much as I do living through them. Give me exciting beginnings, breathless climaxes, and tearful endings – I am master of them all. But the sheer tedium of pecking out the laborious path from A to B is hell itself.