I feel very quiet today. The words are in the stories. As I rework passages of my novel, toss out sentences, bring in new ones to replace the old, I find myself in an unusual position, caught in the breathless anticipation of something coming.
I’ve never been one of those writers who has a lot of ideas. To be honest, that’s probably one of the hardest things for me when it comes to writing, coming up with ideas. It’s a strange thing to say but, really, I just don’t have any.
I don’t know how to jump from one project to another with a dozen nexts stashed away. I generally sit down with nothing. A blank page. An empty space in my head. And I just think: fill it. Because that’s how I approach my whole life. That’s just what I do.
But, all the sudden, here I am with a little something. A someone. A fragment. One stitch of a seam. And, of course, I am not at all prepared. Not at all ready.