The bole of ideas produced outlines of seventeen novels: two have about 100 pages each; five have between five and twenty pages; ten are in outline form on 3x5 index cards moldering away somewhere in the chaos of my office.
There is, however, this ever-increasing impetus to begin. Yes, as previously stated, there are lots of beginnings, some probably worth the writing, but that's not entirely what I mean. To begin to write, like it's what I do, like it's a job. Granted, a job I would love... and hate. A career of passion, a work of desire.
To facilitate this impetus to begin, I retrieved from my personal bookshelf the humorous and elucidating tome On Writing by Stephen King. After re-reading the three forewords by the Author, I turned past the paged entitled C.V. (curriculum vitae), and read up to the remembered moment in Mr. King's childhood where he imagined himself to be someone else.
Immediately, and quite without mercy, another idea seized the old noggin. My imagination whirring, clicking, spinning like an Twilight Zone title sequence. I, too, remember wishing, desperately, to be someone else. Even at the very young age of six, I remember feeling very old, or at least very much older than six - like fortyish - and feeling like... well, alien. Different. Odd. Strange. Not "normal." I also remember, desperately, wishing to be "normal." Had I any idea what I was asking of the Universe, I might not have asked.
Thus, today - I blog. Following this last statement, I write. About what it was like to wish to be someone else.
M. Kate McCulloch
October 19, 2014
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