The next book has begun to speak to me.
It doesn’t yet to know what it wants to say.
I don’t yet know the people who inhabit the space…although, in my habitual trinity of main characters, I think I have a clue about one of them.
I could tell you what the book is about in two words, although I won’t. Yet I don’t know what the deeper story is, the one hidden under the spare description.
With the demands of moving and a new job, writing anything for myself—even posts for this Sky Diaries blogspace that I so dearly love—is a pursuit that has not made itself available to me. A revelation from my secret heart tells me that, more than ever, writing for commerce is not my love.
I live to write fiction. It is the only thing that truly makes me happy. Without it, my life is a series of experiences of the moment; of nows that are soon gone. A museum is lovely, but it is a museum. A restaurant is delightful, but once it’s over, it’s over. I sleep. I eat. I cook. I drink. I entertain the critters. I exercise (when the still-unaccustomed affects of Denver altitude leave me enough energy.) I go where I am required to go to earn a living, and I do my duty there. And still, none of it owns my heart.
The unreal remains more promising and more desirable than my real-life pursuits. The writing is life…everything else is just the spending of time, as delightful as that expenditure might be.
I am always anxious at this stage, waiting for the next book to get started. Waiting for the writing to come back, I find myself cherishing the tiny indications that the story may be sidling closer: the tape recorder that has once again found its way to my bedside, the notes that ask to be written out by hand, the physical pleasure of the careful scribing into my notebook….the signs of return-of-writer are small, yet they fill me with delight.
Next will come the cherished separation anxiety at being removed from my note book; the tape recorder strap that will spend the night wound around my wrist; the characters that will flirt and pester and worry me. The empty spaces of living will fill. A world will come to me–when it’s ready to. For now, I’ll watch and wait and listen with internal ears for the voices. The voices that will decide for themselves when they are ready to speak.