Here is Woolley cantering towards me to bring back down to earth, carrots being more substantial than thoughts.
|Where are my carrots?|
At first I panicked, but it seems the words will arrive late to the party. For now, the whole book is an all-consuming abstract, the excitement growing as it takes on a shape. The process is beginning to produce the same - if slightly more unnerving - thrill.
I never make a plan and this is not what I'm doing now. Nothing is outlined, nothing moulded. There are no pre-cast sections or defined set-pieces. But there is a vague structure going up, a growing tension, a sense of pace. There are characters with faces and voices. There is the all-important theme, in this case the desire to protect your loved ones at all costs, which will gather the different elements together, the way a magnet attracts scattered iron filings.
Not sitting down and committing it to the screen is frustrating for someone who is criminally impatient and usually chooses to type from dawn to dusk, but I believe I understand the reason why I can't take it to the desk yet. It is because my recently completed novel was such a joy to write. Words cascaded like juice from a cut grapefruit and the entire story simply pooled together by itself. This is the encapsulated theme:
Desperate to tell those we love the truth, how many lies do we tell ourselves?
Even if it never sees the light of day, it will have been worth writing, purely for the wonder of watching it burst into life. There was not a single moment when it didn't bring pleasure to sit down and work on it. And I want so much to have the same experience this time.
|These fifty-one steps lead from the village wells to the church and I only ever climb up. Descending makes me think I will fall.|