The HEA Cafe

I go through extremes of emotion while working on a story. It starts when I come up with a new idea. This is a GREAT idea. The best one ever. This one is going to be my break out novel. I’m euphoric. I’m energetic, outgoing, and deliriously happy.  

Then comes trying to shape an idea that is nothing more than bits of fog into a solid structure. Ever try building a snowman out of fog? That’s how it feels. Each writer has his or her own way of getting from idea to story and whatever way works for them, it’s the correct way. My way requires I have a rough (emphasis on rough) outline of the story. Which, in turn, requires I know the characters, who they are, what they want and WHY and how they get from beginning to end. Suddenly that beautiful, gold-tinted idea is nothing but mud. I know I’ll never figure out this story. I whine and cry and email every writing friend I have and tell them how HARD this particular story is. How stupid the characters are. How I’ve eaten myself out of house and home trying, trying, TRYING to make some sense out of all those quicksilver bits of ideas. Not even ideas, really. Just unshaped somethings in the back of my mind. It’s like trying to recall a name that’s on the tip of your tongue. And just like the name often comes at three a.m. and you sit straight up in bed, groan and slap your forehead in exasperation, so it is with many of my ideas. The solution hits me in the middle of the night. I’ve learned not to expect a lot of sleep during this phase of the story. And others have learned this is probably a good time to find excuses to be as far away from the house as possible.  

Once I have a rough idea of the story, I realize how brilliant I am. It’s the best plot ever. This stage lasts until I start chapter one and realize I will never be able to find the words and structure to write the thing in my head. Trying to capture it is like trying to bottle sunshine. It can’t be done. I might as well pitch the whole thing and do something productive. Like laundry. Vacuuming. Flipping burgers.  

I flip flop throughout the entire process. No, I’m not schizophrenic. Okay, maybe a little. You don’t have to be crazy to be a writer, but it helps.  

William Faulkner says, “I listen to the voices.” I just wish my ‘voices’ spoke up loud and clear instead of whispering behind their hands in the background. Maybe I’m more like E.M. Forster who said, “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?” Seems I have to write it down, no matter how confusing, in order to sort it out.  

By the way, my advice to anyone who wants to be a writer: Either accept bouts of insanity as part of the process and embrace it, or go flip burgers. Or am I the only who goes through this roller coaster of emotions? Or have some of you found ways of making the path more level?

Here’s the cover of my May Love Inspired Historical release. It’s called The Road to Love.