Last November, during which I was a proud participant of NaNoWriMo, I started and aborted a story that was my first endeavor into the realm of literary fiction. I don't consider myself technically a good enough writer nor even truly a good enough storyteller to pull off something that is a lot less action-y than the stuff that I usually write. Yet, it was my one chance to put aside the wretched novel-from-hell and give something else a shot. So I made a lot of plans and I came up with a basic structure for it.
It flopped, miserably, about 10,000 words in. I could tell that it was boring...it wasn't going anywhere, and it wasn't even prettily not going anywhere. It was just lying there like a great lump on the ground and growling at me whenever I looked at it. All in all, it and I just weren't getting along. So I got my mop and mopped it up, tossed it in a folder of its own and hid it in the list of my writing failures, titled under My Document as "Graveyard".
There it has happily sat until last night, when I pulled out. Not the story itself, but the notes and the Excel spreadsheet I made for it.
Do you know the expression "the word's on the tip of my tongue"? Well, this is exactly the same thing. I feel like I'm just inches away from some epitome that will give me insight on how to write it, and how to write it so that its reincarnation is less like the growling lump. On my walk to the library this evening, I was even juggling some first lines in my mind. I feel like I've almost got it, but just like the frustration you feel when you can't think of that word, I feel the same about this concept, which I...just...can't...quite...get.
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