Take It to Another Level

My writing I mean. Or the notebook, depending on the point of view.

My life has always been full of people who give me notebooks (old school paper version) as a present and I have always been grateful. Moreover, I always wrote in them. I could easily start with writing a novel, write a interesting fact in the middle, all alone without any context and eventually, at the final pages of the notebook, it was very common to place my shopping list. Or my measures if that was of interest. In other words – chaos. But I found it completely normal, lived with it and no one got hurt. Some scenes found their way from paper to screen, others didn’t, normal as a potato this situation as well.

And then Stephen King appeared, stating that carrying a notebook with you and writing fiction in it is a wonderful idea. You can have it anywhere with you, write everything in it and that process will indisputably help you become better author, provided that at the end of it, instead of reading, you burn the notebook to ashes.

Afterwards he substantiated this suggestion, stating that a good idea ripens into an ingenuous idea inside your head, without any interference. While in a hasty attempt not to lose it, one can easily write it down as mediocre idea. And by saying this he becomes impossible to argue with, unbeatable and, of course, immortal. Because everyone has read the preface by Douglas Addams of the complete set of Hichhiker’s Guide to Galaxy.

So, I have been sitting in internal struggle to write or not to write in the darn notebooks, which I attract with such ease. Here I hold a huge advantage compared to organised people, because together with my scripts there is always, as mentioned, a handprint of a kid and/or a line of song I heard on the radio and/or remarks on speaking in front of public and/or explanation of how the shape of a crystal affects its healing power. Let’s say, this saved them all. But the tension remained and I found myself in a situation of running in circles with a scene in my head. Similar to the decantation of sour cabbage. But unlike the decantation, that apart from being crucial for the conservation process, is wide-known for its meditation potential, my process had no good effect what so ever.

And I got back to my newest notebook, hugged it to my chest, put it in my handbag. ‘I will write in you’ was my firm commitment.

It is rather thick, so I took my time to write what I will write inside it. And I stated clearly that this one is only for the novel about books and love. (Let’s see if a word given means anything after so many years of chaos.) I mentioned that it will contain everything that crosses my mind, related to this novel and I will give my crazy ideas all the space they need (again, it is thick enough).

I started with a story line. The beginning was clear and I summarized the scenes that already are. And below the opening scene I wrote: ‘How does Elena feel, going home after it?’. And I was unable to continue writing story line,

Because I felt

A sudden urge to

Draw

Elena’s apartment!

I did a sketch and Elena started walking around there, staining her clothes while drinking in nervousness. Looking at eh sketch, I know that she can draw the curtain of her bedroom with her toes, while lying on the bed, if needed. Also, where she can hide a secret lover, how loud shall she speak from the kitchen to be heard nicely in the living room, etc, etc.

On the next page I drew her face.

On the next day I sat on my computer and wrote till I dropped. Felt like walking on a safe ground and walked on and on and on ( I almost got to Kansas :). I wrote down in the notebook any form of curiosity that crossed my mind, while the scenes were unfolding in front of me. Felt so proud: the counter advanced with 4000 words when I was done, three hours after I started. I thought of starting a writing journal.

I slept on it and it’s not gonna fly. I am not a journal person. In the best case I will share my experience in a month or two from now when the sparkle of enthusiasm will have faded.