I have a list of story plots I have been journaling.
When an idea comes to my head, regardless of how far-fetched the idea is, I write it down in a document in my phone. If I get another idea that embellishes an idea I already have, I add to it or if it's new, I just start another file.
Some of the ideas are pretty good. Enough ideas for many books to come. However, when I go back to begin to write with one of the ideas, the story quickly spirals out of control, or it goes nowhere. Passionate writing becomes a chore and I avoid returning the the tragic characters that developed so quickly on my screen. Sad, disappointed, euphoric, melancholy, you name it, the characters that so quickly became so real so quickly become, well, nothing. It just ends in a crazy blur of, "Hey, that was a good idea. Why can't I get passed Chapter One?"
I worked, was working, deeply into a great story that began with a suicide--an end to a long journey of heartache and sadness. A relief. It was good. Even if I have to say so myself. It was so good. I was humming along bouncing back and forth between present and past. Feeding the reader just enough to keep the pages turning. Most days I couldn't type fast enough for all the ideas pouring through my mind. I was in love with this idea and it developed quickly. Had a life of its own. I fell so in love with each character it came to a place where nothing but the best would do. The words, the imagery, the emotion. I wanted the readers to put themselves in the place of each character to feel their pain, misery, relief, happiness. When the answer finally came in the form of a tragedy, I wanted it to sting the reader's eyes.
Since that one, it's been nothing but great ideas that seldom extend past the first 20 pages.
I see now much of my desire comes from my satisfaction of where I am in my own walk. Where my thoughts fall and how I address them.
My own deep sadness fills most of my days coloring everything I do just enough to taint, but not discourage. I begin to think of what it might feel like to give in to the rush of nothingness I fight everyday now. Not the suicidal tendencies. The haunting feeling of sadness and loss that should have no home in my otherwise flawless existence because by most people's standards I may not have it the best, but I certainly don't have it the worst.
So a few weeks ago after receive some news I had no energy or desire to mask my most primal response, I cried.
I cried and cried and cried.
At first when the tears were coming I forced them back, I even squeezed my eyes closed and wrinkled my face to put pressure on my tear ducts. It was as exhausting as fighting primal emotions always is.
I made it home with wet cheeks, but no real outward evidence of the trauma I'd just put my body through, so I went in my room and crawled in the bed, covering up with layers of heavy blankets until only my nose was visible.
There I stayed all night crying and sobbing, wiping my nose on my blanket and shirt. Crying and sobbing. I allowed my body to heave and shake. I breathed hard through the feelings and even made a weeping sound that was some where between a moan and a wheeze. I heard my husband come in, but I couldn't see him from under the blankets. He didn't speak to me, so I don't know why he was in there. For me or for himself.
Still I cried. Every time I felt myself rally, start to tell myself to get out of bed, quit acting like a baby, I refused the rally and went with the intense show of emotion I was already embroiled in. I must have allowed myself to cry for hours. It was dark when I finally peeked out from under the blankets. My pillow, blankets and sheets were damp and the air under the blanket was humid from sweat, hot tears and breathe. I didn't feel any better, I felt less exhausted.
