Write full-time he said. Let’s see where it takes you and then you can try something else if it doesn’t work out.
OK, I replied. Diving in to see if the water was warm enough, I felt the rays of warm sun on my face as I surfaced. I knew back then I had done the right thing.
And here I am. Crying.
I’m writing a scene that has been hard for me to put down in words for such a long time. I suppose I just didn’t want to broach the subject of death. Wee people don’t want to read about death, do they? Sadly, the world can be a cruel place.
I decided this morning over breakfast and chasing half dead mice out the house, as you do, that I will write that scene today. I have finally plucked up the courage to give it another go and see if I can get the right emotions across to the unsuspecting reader.
I have thought through the whole start, middle and end and I am ready. Maybe.
The words are there but as I write there is a constant nagging at the back of my mind: show, don’t tell, use your five senses, breathe, eat chocolate, pace the room. I’m certainly very good at the last three on that list. Gold stars and everything.
But what do I want to write? This is the premise that has been keeping me awake into the wee small hours for over a year now, so what do I want to write about? What do I want to say? How do I want my reader to feel? What will they see from my words? Will they want to read on? Will it resound with them in a good way? Perhaps give them hope…
And then I knew.
I want them to reach for tissues as tears fall down their cheeks and the words go blurry. I want them to sigh out loud and wail ‘NO, she can’t die!’ at the right moment. I want them to be there with me every step of the way as I wander down a dark path I’m not sure I want to travel down alone. I want them to understand what the main character is going through. This dreadful thing. This loss to endure. It has to be right. It has to be spot on.
It has to be my story…too.
And here I am. Crying. No-one told me I would do that.