Saturday, July 7

I Write a Book

The book that I have always wanted to read does not exist.  This book consists of particular characters, particular places, enshrouded in a particular atmosphere.  As a writer, it is my conviction that I must write this book in order to fulfil my dreams of the perfect book.  

I feel that there is a book that I am always in the mood to pick up and read, and it doesn’t exist.  Therefore, it is my obligation, both to mankind, and myself as a reader, to create this book – to birth it into existence and therefore appease a dark longing of my soul.  It ties in to my notion of being doomed to be a writer.  I am not destined to write, I am doomed to write.  Writing is an insatiable craving, in indefatigable aspiration, one that seems never to be satisfied, as there is always so much more, so much more to say, always, always. 

So it my greatest delight to share with you something that I have perhaps hid for a little too long.  At first, it was because my internet didn't work.  But then during that dark period of non-internet usage that something began to stir in me creatively.  And by the time the internet connection was back on line, I was so preoccupied, that I just couldn't think how to begin to explain to you the great something that is now in my life.  

I started writing a book.  

I have suffered from an incredible lack of ideas and inspiration for close to six years.  I write half pages that I am proud of - paragraphs that make me go: "I really can write, actually!"  And when I expressed to my brother my thoughts and feelings on writing, he responded very simply with "why don't you write a book?"  

Picasso that that "inspiration does exist, but it must find you working."  This is so true.  I started with a tiny thought - a picture that played in my head as I lay falling asleep two weeks ago.  I decided to write the scene, and then I had an idea on top of that idea, and then a couple of characters on top of those ideas, and on top of those characters, a myriad of stories.  And so it began.  

I had so many problems with the story.  I got half way through, and just got so stuck that I was in despair, but I got my mum and my brother on the scene, had them read the offending chapter, and asked them for their opinion.  I cannot stress enough how smart it is to seek other perspectives.  In an instance, I was given observations that hadn't occurred to me - it was a tool with which to break out of my monotonous train of thought and widen the range of possibilities open to me.  So I got back onto it and wrote some more.  It had characters that I needed to know, and places that I needed to be, enshrouded by an atmosphere that is real to me.  It's becoming the book that I want that I always wanted to read.  

I now have a tree of lime green Post-It notes stuck on my Prince Caspian wall poster - a dot point outline of my story.  It is not a very long story.  I have divided it into chapters, 13 in all, each chapter averaging 2 pages.  When I am complete, I calculate that it will have about forty pages, or eighty pages when cut into a chapter book format, and I would love to illustrate it myself, too.  I have written almost half of it already these holidays, and my goal is to write a chapter each weekend and so finish within the term.  

It has been amazing, though, this process.  I have gone to hell to heaven, to hell, back to heaven.  But I am absolutely sure now about something else.  Not only do I have to fulfil my dreams of the perfect book by writing it myself, but I, by writing, can fulfil my human need for perfect happiness.  

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