I’ve been in the mindset of seeing my work as only a piece to revise since what seems like the last Ice Age (read: March). Even penning new scenes to give the manuscript more forward motion and clarity feels like constructing a puzzle piece that contours exactly into my plot: it’s prose on a mission. So, when recently I sat down with a bit of unguided inspiration and a voice of a character aching to crawl out of me, the sensation of creating something that has no foreseeable end, no finite storyline came rushing back into me. It’s a feeling that I haven’t had in months, and I’m struck so forcefully by how visceral it feels.
This new piece was meant to be a writing exercise - a bit of mental pilates to get me out of Christian’s head (and gender for that matter) and into the mind of a character whose narration is so different, so emotionally unaffected compared to what I am used to penning. Her story doesn’t necessarily have a direction, but for a silly little writing exercise, I’m 3500 words deep in a short narrative that doesn’t seem to want to turn itself off.
My short story experience is limited. The novel has consumed me since I was twenty, and has offered little respite (and inspiration) for side projects. I’m pleased about the idea of something that doesn’t threaten novel-length coming into view, but more thrilled that I’m possessed by a character who is so different but still just as rich and fluid. I am repossessed by a need to write new, unbounded things - a feeling that is more robust than anything I’ve allowed myself to feel in a long time.
M
