A few weeks ago I tweeted the following:
“Novel writing is like a crap relationship, you give love, time & energy & when they’re done, they just disappear into the ether”
I stand by that tweet with one amendment – as the writer when the final edits are in, your creative relationship with the book is at an end, yes, but if you’re lucky, your words don’t disappear into the ether – they just become someone else’s work.
So my last book relationship as an author ended a few months ago. Since then I’ve been doing a little tentative research (creating an online profile) developed a couple of ideas (flirty messages, winky emojis back and forth) and even written a few thousand words (first and second date). It’s a strange courtship – me casting sideways looks, laughing at all the ‘idea’s’ jokes. I like to show that I’m interested but if it turns out to be boring or obvious then I’m not so invested that I won’t jump ship.
I know what I’m looking for though. I’m looking for the ‘I must know everything about this idea’ feeling. I have to be careful not to rebound, not to want it too much. So far, there hasn’t been a sleepover.
There is one idea though. It’s been with me for a while now. He’s the young, gangly teenager with the floppy fringe and ripped tee shirt who filled my heart for years but doesn’t even know my name. In my mind, I write little love letters to the idea. I see us together – the idea and I – late nights, early mornings. Over the months, the idea, like the floppy-haired teen has grown. It’s become loud, audacious, current and terrifying. If it had a voice it would be low and booming, a room filler, a bit frightening. Do I really want to take things further? If I told them, my friends would probably think I’m mad to move the idea in, let it become half my life… but I think what the hell? Opposites are supposed to attract, aren’t they?
