I’m not a natural writer.
Writing is not my ‘talent’. I didn’t make up stories as a child. I didn’t thrive in English class. I didn’t notice the words in books.
So how is it I’m nearly finished my second book?
I’m a natural imaginer.
Ideas are tenacious. Have you ever tried to ignore an idea? They don’t like it, let me tell you. They poke at you. They sneak up on other thoughts. They grow in the corners of your mind. And one way or another, they’re going to get out.
When ideas build up into scenes you’re really screwed.
So one night I had a fully formed scene in my head. At first I imaged it out like a scene from a movie. Then, I imagined it out in words.
I opened my eyes to my dark bedroom. I had to write the words. I had to save them, preserve them. If I didn’t they’d slip away.
I turned on my reading light.
The wooden floor was cold when I got out of bed. I didn’t care. I went to my wardrobe and pulled out an A5 notebook I had made years before.
To be honest, I’ve not idea how I made it.
Sketching pencils aplenty. But a pen? I had to search. I was getting irritated. My masterful words would fade into oblivion for the want of a pen. Things were bad.
Meltdown averted, I located a humble plastic ballpoint. It was in a dust bunny under my bed.
I sprawled out, half my face mushed into my pillow, and wrote the scene with a reckless-writing-abandon I now long for. With the scene finished, I went to sleep happy.
And I woke up excited.
That first scene was finished, but I forgot to shout ‘CUT’ to its characters.
That was twenty-nine months ago. Since then there hasn’t been a single night where my imagination rested.
And I have little choice but to write.