It's hot. I watered the flowerbed outside and every bug in the area showed up there with their night noise to get some moisture, and so here I am awake. David left for work and all is quiet.
The perfect time of day to write.
I've been working on this science-fiction/spirituality piece lately. I don't know what it is, yet. By that I mean, I don't know if it will be a novel or an elongated short story.
Some pieces easily work themselves into a novel because the story flows from you with such force, as if it has been waiting so long to be told and it can not wait another minute, like a confession of truth. Some stories are merely elaborated ideas and are able to wrap themselves up within the span of a few solid chapters, and are given their due in such a frame. Some of my favorite stories are short stories, and they are every bit as powerful as other stories whose pages number in the thousands.
It just takes a while to figure out which you are dealing with.
As many of them do, this particular story began with a dream, which at first spawned a painting. While creating the painting I was replaying the dream in my head, curious about the characters in it, where they had come from and what they might be after. One of the characters was easily elaborated upon and a few others were created as well. Story writing is such a natural event, it is like the blossoming of a mind, the unfolding petals revealing a mystery.
A first-time for me, this story refers often to an entirely made-up world. Complete fantasy. I'm usually such a cut and dry, stick-to-the-facts kind of girl. It's pretty exciting for me, really, but growing to love this one with the passion with which I loved Brundelwain, the book that ruined my novel virginity, (as Sheryl Crow's 'The First Cut is the Deepest' plays in the background...) I will try to love again, but I know...