Pressure of speech
Yeah, I know. Two posts in one night.
This was the post I was keen to write initially, but then I realised a whole lot had happened that I hadn’t written to give it context. So I’m on a roll.
Anyway, I mentioned that I’d decided to try my hand at writing some horror short stories.
A week or so ago, my wife and I were discussing our new vegetable garden and the predations of certain unwanted molluscs.
Which is a fancy way of saying that “slugs ate our radishes”.
Anyway, something happened during this discussion.
I suddenly felt that there might be a story in there somewhere. And that feeling just grew stronger and stronger.
In the end, it wouldn’t let me sleep. Out came a whole short story with character, setting, plot – all in one feverish burst.
In fact, It didn’t feel so much like I had a story, it felt more like the story had me.
Compared to the work I’ve been doing on the novel, it was a totally different experience.
With the novel, I’m fussing with the character development, obsessing over about the setting and it’s internal consistency, anxious about getting the story arc to work. It’s all a conscious mental effort.
It feels like I’m crawling uphill with my fingernails, inch by bloody inch.
With the short story, I’m channelling some kind of mad flood bubbling up from my subconscious, trying to keep up.
What comes out is raw, rough – a first draft in dire need of polish – but it sure courses through me with a furious pace.
I feel like I’m already over the hump of the aforementioned hill, and I’m racing downhill, pulled forward by some kind of story gravity.
It was an exhausting yet magical experience. I was afraid it wouldn’t happen again.
I was wrong.
Another chance conversation with my wife today, and again, I have that urgent feeling growing that there might be a story there.
And yes, there is. Character, setting, plot – all twisting and tumbling, pressing to come flowing up out of my subconscious.
So, it would appear I have found my muse.
Now, I feel I truly understand what other writers meant when they spoke of the power of the muse and how it transforms the writing experience.
Of course, I fully realise that to be a real writer, I need to be able to produce whether inspired by the muse or not. Yes, sometimes, you just have to slog away. And what you actually write may not seem that different in the end.
It’s the process that is very different, rather than the output.
Hopefully, writing about the inspiration will calm the demon enough to let me sleep. Provided I offer it a pact to write the actual story tomorrow night.
Demons are rather picky about such contracts.