Progress

I met my wonderful writer friend for coffee the other day (which I did not partake of, as I sadly have some very bad reactions to any amount of caffeine and even decaf coffee has more of the evil stuff in it than chocolate) and we discussed the usual things: writing, progress, entertainment, media, etc. She is currently writing a very funny sounding screenplay (which she just may hand over to me to edit--one of my most favorite activities in the world. I even constantly edit the books I read I'm that bad) which I am very excited to see. I love our conversations partly because we always end up discussing writing, which gives me an excuse to rant either joyously or woefully on the state of my own writing, which I take full advantage of.
This time my endless chatter was of the joyous sort. Because, you see, I am making progress. More progress than I have ever made on anything I have ever written in my life. When I first started this story (who knows how long ago that was...) I had not written anything in a good 5-7 years. For someone who considers herself inextricably attached and irrevocably in love with the written word, that is a long time. I had stopped writing because I was convinced that I could not write, that I was terrible at it and had no experience or knowledge to write about. I was completely convinced of this despite a very supportive friend who was three years older than me and a considerably better writer. I routinely printed off my current attempts at storytelling, marveling when they reached multiple pages, and handed them over to her for critiquing at youth group. She was so supportive, never had a bad thing to say about what I wrote, instead gently complimenting the few things that I was good at. Eventually I lost contact with her and I gave up writing. I remember the two disastrous attempts that finally convinced me that I was no good: A story about a runaway girl living in another girl's tree house unbeknownst to her parents which meandered around before it finally became painfully obvious that I had no plan and it was going nowhere, and an astoundingly long (for me) story called "Anything But Plain Jane," which was incongruously tragic and quirky in turns.
I can't remember at what point I began to give myself permission to even think about writing again, but I began keeping a notebook of ideas. I would write down titles and characters and plot lines that popped into my head, trying to suppress the instinct to squash them right away. At this point I was not actually even thinking about writing, just generating ideas for books that would be nice to read. And slowly but surely I began to get more ideas until I couldn't just leave them alone.
I'm not even sure how I got this idea, to write a rainy vampire novel focusing on our heroine's adventures within a rather large and gloomy library. How this image materialized in my mind, why i decided to pursue it in the first place. It's been interesting to explore the process of writing again. To see what others say about "how you should be doing it" and then promptly dismissing it. That's been one of the most liberating things of the whole project. People say that you should write a little every day, that you should persevere even when you're not inspired. Common sense tells me that if I've left it alone for three consecutive weeks I will never pick it up again. But instead I've learned to let it be and let the inspiration find me on its own. I avoid a lot of frustration and self-doubt by ignoring the whole damn thing until it comes and searches me out on its own. And surely enough, a scene will present itself. I get no inspiration from messing with and tweaking it, from trying to make it tell me where it's going, to make it go where I want it to go. If it went where I wanted it to go we'd all be in trouble.
In trying to write and actually finish a story I've learned the most valuable lesson about inspiration: Mine works differently from those writers who try to give you advice. It does not come from regular practice or little exercises. It comes from dreaming, from freeing my mind up to think about nonsense, to let it wander around picking up scraps of this and that and piece them together in odd combinations until it finds one that I can't let go of. And write everything down as soon as you think of it--for heaven's sake write it down! Don't listen to people who say that if it's good enough your mind will hold onto it, it's FOLLY!
I get the most interesting thoughts and inspirations from watching TV. Seems counter intuitive, doesn't it? But I get the greatest things from watching CSI and Criminal Minds. I love anything dark and scenes dealing with people and messy things give my mind plenty to chew over. Seeing a beautiful scene, how the lighting is just so, how that one line was delivered beautifully, how that one person reacted, gives me the most interesting things to think about. It makes me say, "What if..?" What if these two kinds of people came in contact, what then? What if a person was in this kind of situation? What if instead of getting angry, this character did this instead? The what ifs are the most productive thoughts my mind ever thinks.
And so here I am now, with a notebook full of scenes, a diagram of beginning, climax, and resolution (who thought I would ever do that?), and a stack of 32 note cards, most of which contain fully developed scenes, and another notebook stuffed with ideas. I have another story in line which I have slowly been developing in my mind and the idea of which is almost completely developed. I have a handful more of ideas, one line concepts that mostly consist of a relationship between two people. That's the stuff I love.
Another important lesson I've learned: Never let anyone read it while you're still writing it. Period. I implemented this one much to my sister's dismay. Too bad.
And that is where I am now. I couldn't be any happier with the way things are shaping up--and that's a first.