I have a lot of words rolling around; frolicking; playing. Some are crashing into each other in quite a satisfying way and others are just not getting on well at all. It is difficult to make any sense of the cacophony in my head.
I think one of the reasons I’ve cleaved to social media for so long is that twittering and status updates largely replaced the wholly disorganised discursive soup in my head. Often, when I’m having a conversation, I must concentrate with a great deal of difficulty in order to pluck a passing collection of, hopefully, related sentences from a dense word traffic. When I’m talking, I can hear myself rearranging words and thoughts as I speak and I can’t imagine how I must come across.
I’ve been thinking all day about what I might write. I know I might be judged here for avoidance tactics and procrastination. I know what that is and what it looks like, for I am the master of that particular domain; I am not mucking around, for a change. What I am doing is trying to get the words and thoughts and ideas and notions in my head straight so that they make some kind of sense. My hope is that characters and settings and plots and a coherent narrative will thence spring into life. Sounds easy enough. I may be being overly optimistic but I think if I didn’t begin with the idea that I might at least make something from nothing, there would be no point in writing at all.
Something I do know is that I need a detailed plan. I’ve only ever stared at a blank page and started writing until I had finished what I was working on, or until I was satisfied that I had exhausted the potential of a bit of passing word traffic. My mind is too disorganised not to be forcibly made to tidy itself, which might be why I haven’t produced anything worth reading in fiction so far.
Of course, I might just not be very good. Another reason not to write. I think I’ll throw that thought in with the others. Somewhere in the back.