At long last I’m finally trying to write this novel that’s been rattling around in my brain since high school. I turned it into a short story for a creative writing class, and have carried that version from place to place ever since. I stumbled across it a few months ago and now it’s almost constantly drafting scenes and concepts in my head.
I’m beginning to accept that I can’t write this the way I usually write. I prefer one foot in front of the other. The story itself may jump around in time, but I work through each next step until it feels like solid ground to move forward with.
No. This story wants me to get all the good bits down. The pieces that will then need to be fit together. Who knows what this will look like on the other side, but without these pieces, I’ll never see the big picture.
I’m almost ready to commit to working on it. Once I open these floodgates, there’s no going back. I’ve got a fresh notebook and plenty of pens. Now to just go ahead and scatter the scenes throughout the pages with scratched in ideas and changes stuffed in the margins. Oh, the child writer in me is so excited to see what this grownup version can do.