The other night, smack in the middle of it, I awoke with the perfect story in my head. A full-fledged plot from the explosive beginning to the twist, to the satisfying ending. And what characters--fully developed and fascinating in every way. Yes, this story was a gift. Finally! I mean, I’ve heard of writers dreaming their novels, but this has never happened to me. So, when this new story smacked me between the eyes (think Tooth Fairy with attitude), I grabbed a pen and as quick as a half asleep human can do, I blindly scribbled the basic premise and plot points of this new story onto a pad of paper. Under the light of the moon (yes it was full, but never mind that), I sketched out just enough about the characters to spark my memory in the morning. After I outlined my dream, got it down onto paper, I flopped back into bed and sighed with a satisfied grin. The work in progress that I’ve been laboring on would have to be put aside. This new story was too sweet to let sit.
Hours later, I woke up to the alarm. And I remembered the excitement of my middle of the night story. I couldn’t wait to start getting my notes into my computer. I even considered postponing the morning shower and feeding the animals.
And then I read what I had written hours before. Don’t ask how I somehow managed to make sense of my middle of the night scribbles. Imagine a page after chickens have stepped in ink and danced all over the paper. That’s pretty much how my notes looked. And the story… Well, (clears throat and shuffles feet) there isn’t one. There is nothing close to a story, much less a decent one or anything with a hint of potential (sighs).
Is it just me, or do the ideas that sometimes pop into our heads and seem like pure brilliance lose their shimmer and shine after they sit a while?
Now, please excuse me while I return to my work in progress. I need to apologize to it.