Tuesday, May 21, 2013

A new beginning.

Does every artist paint the same picture? Does every musician construct the same melody? What inspires me? Being different. Not for anyone else but myself. To be able to say I that I am a writer and that I have a story (stories!) to tell is something I have always cherished. But to be able to tell that story and be different is an obsession. 

My whole life has revolved around words. Speech is something we take for granted, ask my father who was unable to speak for 2 years after a stroke, and still suffers with Aphasia. Words are a gift. Am I saying I am gifted, of course not, but the ability to appreciate them and yield their power into my own creation is something I enjoy. 

When I was little my aunt used to let me drag out milk crates full of children's books and allow me to ignore the world for awhile. I would get lost in Ramona Singer's life (Airmail to the Moon) or Amelia Bedelia's tedious chores. Loved by a little girl in a dark bedroom closet with a flashlight, they were my friends. 

The idea stuck with me then and has always stayed. You could do this, you could tell a story and let someone fall in love with your words. 

A few months ago I started an idea in my head. I wrote out a "logline": a one page stream of consciousness of the story and how it would flow from start to end. I began showing my friends and family and, whether they were blowing smoke up my a-- or not I'm still unsure, but they all filled me with the same enthusiastic encouragement. You can do this, you NEED to do this. So I did, well, I am. I began researching tiny towns and music venues and even which trees grow during certain seasons. I loved this part. Then one night I got bored of research. The story literally tapped my fingers against a table one night. Ok, this is it, here goes nothing...and I wrote for hours. My eyes actually bled. Ok, they didn't, but it felt like it. I had written a few chapters over the course of a few days. Then, I named the book. I gave the people in my head a name, a home. 

This is happening too fast. I thought, this can't be real. I emailed a few close friends and my cousin the first few chapters. "Do I suck, just get it over with." Again, not sure if they're just blowing smoke up my you know what but the general consensus was, "I want more!" So I started writing more. I sent it to my good friend for some editing (which by the way is a completely underrated job I mean I freaking love comma's so God Bless her heart). And then it took off. I researched cover artists, and booked a vacation to Birmingham, Alabama where my sorry a-- decided was a great place to plant the people in my head. 

I'm excited for this adventure. No! I'm OBSESSED with this adventure. This might end up failing miserably and my book will suck and never see more than a Barnes and Noble clearance rack. But, I will be able to say I did it. Like any musician, artist, painter, photographer, or trapeze artist who can say they made something of their own. I will be proud of my creation.

...And my father will continue to be proud, because we both know what words mean when you take them for granted. And what it means to have them as a gift. 

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