Spark

For the first time in months, I’ve felt the urge to write. “Propa writin’” too - you know, in oppose to the mindless shite I tend to publish on my blog. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was actually a little hesitant in even mentioning it; it’s been so long since the desire to write has struck me - and even longer still that a reasonably solid idea partnered it - that I almost kept this to myself in case vocalising it sent it scurrying away again for another year or two.

But the itch in the centre of my brain has become harder to ignore, and thanks to several lonesome commutes to and from work, an Inkling has been fleshed out into something of an Idea and if I’m not careful, I may actually have to open MS Word for non-work purposes. *nods gravely* Yeah, I know. Scary, eh?

I’ve been writing fiction since I was ten years old and was convinced that I was categorically unable to turn It off. It was like a leaky tap . . . I either stuck a pen or keyboard in front of my fingers to catch the drips or just waited patiently for the flood to arrive. Either way, it was a constant intensity that waxed and waned over the years but never entirely went away.

I still have my first “book” - a collection of - and I use the word loosely - horror stories, written in a ten-year-old’s careful print, complete with spooky (read lameass) illustrations. Sometimes my stories seemed so real I’d be awake all night, eyes wide and clutching my duvet, convinced that a knife-touting maniac - of my own invention - was crouched behind my door.

The Truth - and by that, I probably mean real life - has never held much appeal for me; particularly as the world inside my head was always so much more entertaining than the one outside it. I was depressingly young when I realised that real life - and real people - were prone to disappoint. So, as I grew older, I begrudgingly took the path other loners before me had trampled. Few friends, little confidence and bang! - the writer in me arrived, sweaty, shouting and ready, borne from a little girl’s loneliness and imagination.

I read too much. Spend too many solitary hours in my bedroom. Eventually, the Sweet Dreams novels I pored over became stale to me. Characters acted oddly, plots took dodgy turns and many ended in disappointment. By twelve, I decided that I could do better myself. No friends? No boyfriends? Fine. I’d make up my own.

My ideas were, and remain, like granite: starting so cumbersome, thick and unyielding. But with patience and cultivation . . . slowly, they would begin to take shape. Worlds opened up before me. I could actually see the people inside. And words! So many of them! How can so many little, innocuous letters become so important when strung together in a particular order? I loved to hold them in my hands, look them over, move them around, examine above and beneath them . . . how could they be so spectacularly mundane when they affect each and every one of us so deeply? They fascinated me - they still do.

I used to think and feel so much. I’d be convinced that I would explode into a million tiny shards of words and phrases. Is what I felt normal? I hoped so, but I was so solitary, I couldn’t be sure. Would it help others if they read what I write? Possibly not. But if I stopped the words from flooding out . . . well, there was so much going on in my head that I may have just exploded anyway.

I wrote because I didn’t know how not to.

I permitted that amazing spark of a little girl’s imagination to die. It was slowly eaten alive, devoured by the humdrum of Growing Up, and it is always going to be one of the biggest regrets of my life.

Here’s hoping that this slow, steady drip signals the return of something that I’d thought I’d lost.

V xx

Posted on 23rd January, 2007 at 6:13 pm |

Add a Comment