I recently wrote about how I get the ideas for the stories I write. I mentioned that they come from the world around me; from observance; and, from simply being part of the vastness we call THE UNIVERSE. I said that with a booming voice. You should too. For effect. Go back and do it.
Waiting…
True, as writers, we all have that one boondoggled piece of work we politely refer to as soupshit. No, trust me, it’s there.
It might be tucked deep in your hard drive, or crumpled in the corner of that cobweb infested room, or maybe tucked under the mattress next to the, uh, um, well…
Point is, we ALL have some writing that is less than savory. It reeks of fuckedupness. It drips of excrement. It oozes green pus. It’s that one piece that we tend to ignore the most, think of the least, but constantly make notes for when or if we ever return to it. Surely, like a long lost love we will return, no?
Meh.
Maybe?
Probably not.
Ever?
Well…
Okay, usually. But, only when the time is right. It’s never easy going back to the earliest pieces that we wrote long ago, back in the day, once upon a time, or even in a land far far away. Like another galaxy.
But, alas my dear inkslingers, we shall return. We usually do it after we find some meaningful success. Maybe someone said they like our writing or that we have great potential. Then, you shout, “Fuck You!” to the almighty writing gods that once shamed you. You pull out that long lost prose and…
You slowly read it. Aloud.
You cry.
You look, but there’s nowhere to hide. You sit at the corner of pain and angst and seriously question yourself, maybe even like this: “What the fuck was going through my head? Where was the disconnect between my brain and my hands as I wrote this–this dribble. Fuck me, it’s adverb heavy and past tense babble. I suck!”
Ahh, but the other side of you says, “Wait! It was a great idea. Use it. Not all of it, but use some of it.”
There’s your kerfuffle.
Like fine origami, you massage and fold things together from that one brilliant idea of yesteryear. Or last night. Whichever. Sometimes scotch does craaazy things.
ANYWHO.
Your idea is now reborn. Embrace it. Hug it. No, I mean physically pick it up and hug it. Go ahead. I’ll wait. And turn my head, you know, just in case things get outta control.
So there you have it, ideas never crawl away and die. They just sit idle waiting for the right fit. Fit them well, my friends. Fit. Them. Well.
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