I love being a writer. Living in that whole essence of writery-ness. It should be a word, writery-ness. It's not just being an author, technically, as I have not published a book, or had a book published, I'm just a writer. Which is okay, because writery-ness is a liberating stage of exploration and freedom enjoyed until author-dom hits, and the need for a publishable, sellable book has an impact on what is written. I most certainly expect to hit the stage of author-dom in my lifetime, by no means will I be content to live in writery-ness forever! But for now, I'm enjoying it.
I'm enjoying times like this morning when I was getting ready for work, and these words from a shelved character in the recesses of my mind came pouring out. I grabbed my phone and did the voice-to-notes thing while getting dressed because she finally spoke. I knew she was real when she first appeared, months ago, knew she could be three dimensional, knew she had a mind and a voice, but I hadn't heard it. She had come up and then, faded away with nothing more than a thought of what could possibly maybe be. So I placed her in a home, a young girl with dark long hair and acne-pocked skin. And she spoke, and now I know more about her. It will be interesting to see who she becomes, and if she is strong enough to carry forth a novel.
I was absurdly pleased when the working title of the novel I'll work on in January came popping into my head, with an image to match! It's an epic tale, I expect it'll take me the better part of a full year to write, but I'm excited about it.
I love that when I'm wandering through my day, working ho hum working ho hum, lines and images and voices come crashing out that can't be ignored anymore, so I have to write them down. Sometimes it's as simple as saying hey, hey, I'm languishing here in Chapter 7 trying to build something and you've completely ignored what this means to me, I have feelings! Don't ignore the point of what I lost! Or a scene just plays itself out. Or, sometimes, a character bows out, and says, no, this isn't the story for me. Like the falling woman, who I'm sure is real, and needs a story, but not yet, she says. Apparently, I haven't got the drift of her yet.
Writery-ness. The weird place where suddenly, you see things around you differently, because there's a new, unexplored realm waiting for you in your head, but you're physically stuck in a chair, ho hum ho hum... and the mind is off, and the words come tumbling out and you find a page or a notebook or a laptop and there, you've escaped and are free, in the unmapped terrain of your mind. It's there for you, the realm of writery-ness.