I’m reading the delightfully frank Stephen King’s On Writing, which is as much to blame as, say Neil and Karen. After a full night of fencing (With Robert, Delia and Cheri away, I got to fence the Maestro in EVERYTHING) I fell into bed, wrecked.
The last thing I read in On Writing was an exercise into uncovering a story through the process of writing– as opposed to having the idea fully-formed in the flesh of plot and I decided, by virtue letting the brain percolate over the notion, as well as every muscle letting me know that I had one move left in me and that was to turn the light off. This was a shit idea.
The idea King had planted was based around a thriller/stalker idea (Which should have been obvious in hindsight) as well as the idea of writing how a character acts and reacts to a situation, less so than a formula. One minute after I turned off the light, I kicked the blanket off and, flailing a foot blindly about, brushed the tiger fur blanket Karen and Neil got me for my ‘bachelor pad’.
(Not really tiger fur but the fact its imitation makes it even more sleazy if such a thing can be believed)
I won’t bore you with the full story, mainly because I plan on boring you with the full story once I read it but datum A plugged into datum B and I spend the next hour thinking, in immersively graphic detail, what it would be like to have a tiger waking up at the foot of your bed.
Using the Pocket Brain and keyboard, I typed long and short form until the keyboard batteries ran out– the batteries ran out just after I hit the Backspace key so I lost a paragraph of typing before I managed to save and exit Notes. This did not stop the brain from sending more ideas of what it would be like to have a tiger tasting you while you imagine its fangs crushing your skull (Perfect sleeping material, yes). Born of desperation but without the desire to get up and fire up the main desktop, I foggily remember that I’ve got a voice recorder on the Pocket Brain.
There are now three WAV files of ideas and notes, interpersed with various swears that I’ll listen to sometime tonight and try to turn into something good. Or at least somewhat more tempered.
Brain is paying for this by being forced to work on six or less hours sleep.
Still, it’s great to be writing again and being disgusted only at the late hour.