Sometimes, ideas are like treacle. And sometimes they’re like toffee. Sometimes, they’re like neither. I guess in this particular analogy they would be a kind of burnt ochre. And a bit bland. Hmm. Maybe burnt umber is more apt.
Anyhoo. I can’t explain it at all. I simply sit with Maggie carefully perched on a scarf (low tech shock absorption on the train) and ideas simply come forth. Like angelic hordes, only more useful. Although I wouldn’t mind having an angelic horde. You know, for light dusting and the like (I’ve never really understood the term — like heavy artillery and light cavalry — surely it is what it is). I don’t know whether it’s the music, being surrounded by other people (so having to look busy), or the feel of the scrabble keys or what. But it’s simply the most creative phase I’ve ever been in.
A novel that started off as a one way conversation between me and my dad has changed more in the last five weeks than in the previous sixteen years. And keeps changing. I hope, for the better. But I can’t help feeling that it’s somehow less me, the more it moves into fiction. Seeing as that is rather the point of the exercise, I’m probably being a bit unfair.
For posterity’s sake, today I ended up with a list of five questions. One alters the book forever, another two involve replacing two characters who were paper thin caricatures of ex-girlfriends, and another revolves around some factual research that I need to do.
Gosh this is a dull entry, I best post this and start ranting.
