So it was the week I was at home with the Wombat at the end of August, and I remember the moment quite clearly. I was by the window in the kitchen, I just turned away and the most marvellous short story came to me all-ready cooked, as it were. All I had to do was write in down.
I was busy in the middle of another story and I have a rule of one story at a time, so I just put it aside, mentally like, saying to myself, I’ll work on it as soon as I’ve finished this one. I’ve done it before with no problems.
This time then, I promptly forget everything.
Everything that is, except the feeling that it was a wonderful story and needed to be told. Like waking up in the morning and knowing you have dreamed and it was a most satisfying dream… and it’s hovering around in the grey depths and just won’t come forward and be recounted. Frankly it’s worse than the word on the tip of your tongue feeling, it’s more like déjà vu mixed with nostalgia, with the added blur of the morning after the night before.
I’ve since purchased a block of small index cards about 3”x5”, and now jot down strange ideas, openings, one-liners and fleeting scraps of character on them. Pinning them down like butterflies.
But that perfect story still hasn’t come back.
Probably never will.
Posted: Thursday, 17th September, 2009blog comments powered by Disqus