Personally, I open up a new document on Word and I start typing. I like Word, it’s familiar to me and I know a lot of the shortcuts and keystroke commands to make life easier.
What I then need is a subject to write about.
If it’s a journalistic piece, I keep Google open and I do research as I go. I don’t normally write about things that a) I’m not interested in or b) I don’t already know a little bit about beforehand, because I find it easier to make an interesting piece for others to read if I’m interested in the subject matter myself. It really does seem to work that way. If I’m not interested, I can’t inject false enthusiasm into my work.
If I’m writing for pleasure, the sheer hell of it, or I simply need to get my thoughts out of my head and onto ‘paper’, then I bash away at the keys to my heart’s content.
Only when I’m interrupted or disturbed do I break from typing and if I find it difficult to get going again, I read through what I’ve just written (sometimes I read all of what I’ve written) to get me back in the zone. When I re-read, I also edit. It’s a bad habit, but it’s my bad habit and try as I might, I can’t get out of it.
When I started writing my first novel, I had an image in my head – a short scene of a girl, running for her life through dark and dangerous woodland. I had an idea of hair flying behind her, getting caught on bare branches and twigs and from that, I got the idea of the season – going into winter. I also had the idea that she was dressed in thick but threadbare clothing, with nothing but cloth to cover her feet. Old-fashioned clothing – probably more than a century or so ago – maybe even more than that… we’ll see.
Yes, the images in my head can be very specific.
The girl couldn’t catch her breath – so she’s running fast and she’s terrified – another image to draw me into the character I was creating.
She’s young and vulnerable, but trying so desperately hard to be tough – even to herself. Maybe she is trying to reassure herself. Every little sound terrifies her and I suddenly want to know why she’s there and what she’s running from.
Suddenly she was running. It was an act of pure instinct - the urge for flight. She gathered her skirts and ran as though her life depended upon it, running as hard and as fast as she could through the brambles that she had skirted around on her way into the wood.
That was where the whole thing started. I’ve found one of the first drafts of my story. It’s very raw, unedited, totally unbridled enthusiasm, running away with me as fast as the girl in the story wanted to run. The difference is, she wants to escape from the thing in the woods and I want to escape into the story behind it.
She swayed off balance, arms flailing for a moment as she saw that she had missed the pathway. She almost stopped and turned back but the beast was too close for comfort.
She was again taken aback when she had to jump over a partially rotten log which had not been on her path on her way in; her skirts almost tripped her as they were tangled with her legs. She could hardly see anything in front of her because of the darkness, her panic and the undergrowth. The beast was still with her, its noises of pursuit no longer muted, it had given up on a surprise attack. It was still keeping pace with her yet at a distance. She had stopped looking for it now but there was still no glimpse of it through the trees.
Somewhere on her head-long flight the hunter had moved in behind her, no longer parallel to her, so she knew the chase was on in earnest.
Her initial sprint had weakened her and she no longer had the benefit of the adrenalin that she had before, after the first shock. Her near-exhausted legs were as heavy as lead, pumping her feet over the uneven and slippery ground. The brambles, thorns and branches were catching her face, legs, hands, hair and dress. Her wrap had long since gone. Her lungs protested audibly as the bitterly cold air was pulled into them and then forced out. Blood pounded in her ears.
Her eyes protruded from their sockets, trying to find familiarity in her surroundings and her mouth gaped with the combination of terror and breathlessness. Chest heaving with the effort of her exertion, her left side painful because of cramp, she thought that she would have to stop soon. How she had not fallen and injured herself was almost miraculous and the fear that she was still being pursued and the anticipation that she would be caught at any moment was unbearable.
She altered course as she splashed through a stream, using a large bush as cover for the change of direction.
Then she suddenly swung herself behind a massive tree trunk, changing her route yet again. The oak was an old one and the monstrous trunk gave only a little safety, but little was better than none in her present panicked state. With her back against the trunk she slowly slid down into a crouch, holding herself, trying to ease the stitch in her side, forcing herself not to burst into tears.
I had such a lot to learn back then. I still need to learn more than I realise, I’m sure, but as I rediscover my enthusiasm, I’m certain the words and stories will find me again.
