Several weeks ago I was perusing this blog, for what reason I can’t recall today. But I stumbled upon a post written over five years ago concerning the inner editor and a novel I wanted to write. Then my husband played for me “Pay My Debts” by Sharon Van Etten. As if those two elements were fated in the stars, I’ve been giving serious consideration to an idea that never went further than a blog entry, yet somehow was waiting for one rather ponderous hawk to move out of the road.
And speaking of getting out of the way…. I’m heading off to help out at The Burrito’s house, where I hope to further consider a future WIP in addition to enjoying my nieto and his family. I’ve completed the table runner for my eldest daughter, which came about as suddenly as how a five-year-old novelistic notion seems to have embedded itself firmly in my gray matter. I’ve solved the issue of how to handle my squeamishness; just throw in some social issues, lol!
Now to figure out backstory, and not only for the main characters. I’m going to set this tale in another galaxy, haven’t written sci-fi in ages. (Magical Realism doesn’t count in my book, ha ha, and no, this doesn’t have to do with those Dorlinians.) This will be a cross of the murder mystery/love story I had originally envisioned enhanced by topical commentary. Those contemporary musings will override the more gory details, but I need to fill in the blanks only my imagination can solve.
There’s a distinct pleasure in resurrecting an idea, especially when a surprise lifts the whole thing from half-baked haziness to something I can actually contemplate, sort of like the table runner that now only needs a good washing. Placemats still linger on a quilt wall, but for whatever reason, this decorative item is finished. Why do some projects hover on the sidelines while others burst forth as if fashioned by about eight other hands? I was thinking about this over the last couple of days while this table runner went from a stack of scraps to rows on the quilt wall, then onto my ironing board, seams being pressed as flat as I could make them. Will this new novel, currently entitled Haunted, come about just as easily?
I won’t know until at least July, no time to write, barely time to sew. But I am clearing off my little quilt wall, those Southwestern shades dwindling in number. As projects fall under the presser foot, fictional facts accumulate in my head, very much as how fabric adheres to batting, then gets switched around. Post-it notes work well too, but I’m nowhere near ready to do more than mentally swap out the whys and wherefores.
Yet a necessary sense of direction now exists; I have a plan, as Little Miss likes to say. And not only direction, but purpose, which previously this idea was lacking. I like my melodrama with more than a touch of reality, magical or no. Allegories are good for the soul, and when placed in outer space, any number of situations can be employed. The less gory they are the better, in my opinion. I wanted to write a bloodless thriller, okay. Bring on Haunted; I’m not scared at all.