On fiction
On Monday I had the day off, so among other things I went to see a movie by myself. I sat in the theater and watched the story play out onscreen. It was fiction, but it could have been real; the layers and nuances, sad and funny, even the tedious and mundane bits, were all relatable in some first or second hand way. I did what I had payed to do; sit there and be taken in by a story, by beautiful landscapes, interesting dialog and emotions that played out upon and in the actors' lovely faces and accents. Yet as I sat there, captivated as I was, a thread of thought began to form, trailing off towards a labyrinth of possibilities. My mind held two points of focus; the storyline I was there to be entertained by, and a new storyline that was slowly taking shape in my mind, one concocted from a single thought that occured during a passing shot in the film. A shot of a man leaving a funeral, walking down a hillside and taking off his tie, if you are curious.
As the thought formed, it budded into a scene in my mind, growing more and more vivid. The thought became several ideas, taking on the form of two chapters written from two different perspectives. The beginning of writing a story is perhaps the most thrilling. There's so much potential; everything at that moment is clear. The main characters are barely beginning to breath and haven't run into any conflicts of plot or likeability. My fingers yearned to scribble or type these ideas down, to capture the feelings of the characters that were taking shape in my mind and give them a heartbeat on a page. Instead I concentrated on holding them in my thoughts, whispering for them to wait for me; I'd release them to a page, be patient, please wait.
Looking back later, holding that moment of creativity - or of recieving some mental gift - I had a funny thought that I was like the dwarf from that old fairy tale that sat and spun spools of gold thread throughout the night. Like I had taken a piece of straw - the single scene - and had been given power to make it into something new and beautiful. I took the idea and spun until I had a spool or two of possible story, then set them in a pocket of my mind: a protected cache. Now the question would be if I would in fact take up that spool and weave the thread into a tapestry of story. Or, would I scribble down a few ideas, a few paragraphs, then leave it, letting the rest of the thread grow dusty and forgotten, someday to turn back into straw?
Right now, the ideas are in a few paragraphs. I hope and intend to continue weaving them. The rest of the golden spool, there in the cache, is waiting. It is a fact that I can choose to work on those ideas and turn them into something worthy, interesting, pitiful or rediculous. It is fiction that what was given to me will ever do the work itself. I'll hold the thread that was shown to me by a single idea, and maybe, carefully, I'll find my way in the labyrinth of my own raw reality.
As the thought formed, it budded into a scene in my mind, growing more and more vivid. The thought became several ideas, taking on the form of two chapters written from two different perspectives. The beginning of writing a story is perhaps the most thrilling. There's so much potential; everything at that moment is clear. The main characters are barely beginning to breath and haven't run into any conflicts of plot or likeability. My fingers yearned to scribble or type these ideas down, to capture the feelings of the characters that were taking shape in my mind and give them a heartbeat on a page. Instead I concentrated on holding them in my thoughts, whispering for them to wait for me; I'd release them to a page, be patient, please wait.
Looking back later, holding that moment of creativity - or of recieving some mental gift - I had a funny thought that I was like the dwarf from that old fairy tale that sat and spun spools of gold thread throughout the night. Like I had taken a piece of straw - the single scene - and had been given power to make it into something new and beautiful. I took the idea and spun until I had a spool or two of possible story, then set them in a pocket of my mind: a protected cache. Now the question would be if I would in fact take up that spool and weave the thread into a tapestry of story. Or, would I scribble down a few ideas, a few paragraphs, then leave it, letting the rest of the thread grow dusty and forgotten, someday to turn back into straw?
Right now, the ideas are in a few paragraphs. I hope and intend to continue weaving them. The rest of the golden spool, there in the cache, is waiting. It is a fact that I can choose to work on those ideas and turn them into something worthy, interesting, pitiful or rediculous. It is fiction that what was given to me will ever do the work itself. I'll hold the thread that was shown to me by a single idea, and maybe, carefully, I'll find my way in the labyrinth of my own raw reality.
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