I’m writing again. A new project. I’m not sure when I started, but it’s been swimming around in my head for a few weeks now. Flashes of an unfolding story, tidbits of dialogue, a few dashes of purple-prose scene-setting that I’ve done my best to temper. It’s all coming out slowly, and I’m content to let it; what matters is that it’s coming freely, without an ounce of effort on my part.
It feels good to be penning something new. That blank eternity that lies ahead when you sit down to Chapter One is always full of opportunity, and possibility. A fresh start, where anything can happen, and an entire unknown world awaits.Perhaps that’s a tad arty-farty, and I apologise for running the risk of making you cringe and groan out loud. But that’s the best way I can describe how I feel about it. Like teasing open an oyster.
What makes it all so much the better is doing it all longhand. I spend a lot of time at the word processor, but there’s nothing better than the feeling of writing real words with a real pen, whether it’s on premium cream paper, on a receipt, or scrawled onto the back of your hand. That tactile feeling of creation is something that rattling on a keyboard can never quite duplicate.
The Waterman Carene that I’ve been using this past year – twenty-first birthday present, courtesy of Mum and Dad – makes it all the sweeter. Nay, it’s sublime. With that moulded nib snaking its way across the page in front of my eyes, sometimes I swear I can feel the story’s naked essence flowing out through my arm. (Again with the arty farty? You’re damn right, and I don’t apologise for it this time.)
I can’t be sure, but I think this project may be the opening to Brink (Ruin 2). I’ve not run into anybody else from the story yet, but I have an inkling that these characters are running around in the same neighbourhood.
Whatever the case, I’m thrilled to pick up this ball and run with it. It’s got steam.
The website is finally finished. Mostly minor changes that nobody other than me will notice, but it’s another chore to tick off the list. The bookshop is set, the links are all in place, and the graphics (courtesy of artist extraordinaire, Levente Szabo [http://www.briskgraphics.com]) have been splashed across the header-space.
It’s been a fair few years since I’ve worked with web-development, so I’m glad to find that an adolescence spent pouring over computer code wasn’t entirely wasted.
I’m reading Moby Dick. Have been for two weeks now. I’ve been burning up a lot of hours at work, so I’ve barely had time to do anything more than snatch a few pages during breaks and before bed. But I get the feeling that this kind of novel is one better suited to that kind of reading, anyhow; like fine wine, it’s a sin to chug something that should be sipped.
One thing I have made sure to do is take evening walks in the local park. The night I started Moby, I discovered a picnic bench there, nestled at the edge of a wheat-field. You can see for a few miles until the distant hills buckle the land at the horizon, and there’s hardly a building in sight. The flight-school at Cranfield sends their rookie pilots flying over that field at around the time I stroll there.
It sounds pretty dull on paper, I suppose, but walking there as the sun sets a little earlier each day, and winter rolls in, has been unspeakably calming. With university looming, my manuscript on the brink of submission, and work taking a nosedive, I’ve had my fair share of headaches of late. But there, it’s all just so much clutter; something to be cast aside as I sit at that bench and read about mad Ahab and co.
I don’t know when I’ll finish. It’s not the longest book in the world, but it’s no Animal Farm, either. I’m in no great rush, though I’m itching to get to a fair few books on my shelf at the moment. I want to get as much as I can out of this one. And I feel that it’s got plenty to give.