the search for what it was really all about.

Everything I have ever written and will ever write comes out of my own mind. I cannot write anything beyond my own thoughts. My memories and experiences, then, are the most important things I own. Along with language. But that’s not the point right now.

In order to write stories we delve past the names and events and dates to see what it was really all about, to see what it meant then and what it means now. And once we’ve worked it out, or while we’re working it out, we wrap it all up in a separate package. We tell the story with different names and events and dates. Perhaps one lot of events happened over six weeks in an Australian highschool but the other will happen in Paris over a few years. Or vice versa. But at the centre of it all will always be the truth; the essence of what it was all about. At the centre of it all we’re reaching out and asking if others will join us.

Will you be brave with me? Will you learn with me? Will you suffer with me? Will you dream with me? Will you understand me?

the highs and lows

I’ve been spending a lot of time distracted lately, what with my parents visiting, me preparing to go overseas and general life stuff. But even more distracting than all of those things are ideas. I keep finding myself lost in the dreamland of ideas for the next book I want to write. My mind has become tired of the novel I’m finishing up and no longer gets excited by those characters. I can make myself interested in it again but it doesn’t happen spontaneously.

Today though, I wrote an ending I like. I wrote it on paper, unlike the rest of the story, and I think that helped me focus my attention. So hooray for learning ways to focus and hooray for endings.

Now to finish it all up in the next 4 weeks…