October 18, 2016 by jeliwobble
The problem with being a writer solely in your head, and not literary in any way, having stopped studying language as an art form at high school, is that sometimes you will be noodling through general news pages and read something by someone who clearly has more education and, dare I say, interest in both literature and language, and it causes you to have a blinding revelation.
It will no doubt be obvious to many people that there are some fantastic writers who couldn’t write a story where actual things take place in logical beautiful progression, if required to by firing squad.
This had, sadly, passed me by, even though, by all accounts, some of my own favourite authors are, in fact, in this hallowed group.
Whereupon the epiphany of sorts hit me.
I don’t actually have to write a story.
I can write a character. Or several. And some things happen to them. Which don’t necessarily have to fit together in any fashion, or make sense in any real way, because it’s not about the things that happen to them, but how those things make them react.
And, maybe, just maybe, this is how this bloody novel will actually get written…