Choices

So today’s been a strange day. Starting with going over the ecology work i’ve been doing for freelance work, which can sometimes be difficult, not only because it’s not as fun as creating a story, but because it’s not your work.

I am very happy to have these opportunities to get paid to write. The fact I can take that money and put it towards real things makes me feel like I can actually live off doing what I love. It might not be royalties from a novel, but it’s still money for words, and that means something to me.

I try and turn everything into something fun, making sure that I pay attention as often as possible, so I can work it into a story. I tend to write little notes down, that sometimes come together with other little notes and form a story, and sometimes make no sense at all.

I’ve also been reading Pet Sematary by Stephen King, and it’s one of those stories that seems to wait for you to get there, patiently biding its time till you’re ready. It’s light and to the bone, taking me out of my comfort zone in a sentence alone. The best thing about this story is it has interesting characters, even Church the cat has his own little strut going on.

It’s seems like such a silly thing to say, but if you have interesting characters, then you’re going to have people care what happens to them. I’ve slogged my way through stories where I can’t seem to get invested because something was off, and it’s generally something to do with the characters. Plots are the point of the story, and structure and pace allow the moment to seem real, but without interesting characters you’ve just got a load of words.

Pet Sematary is not one of those stories. It’s fast and footloose, and doesn’t mind throwing you from one moment of solace, taking comfort in the company of another soul, and then looking into the shattered cranium of a dying jogger. i’m about half way through, and it feels as if i’ve barely begun.

I’ve been writing a few pages of my newest novel, feeling the slight strain of my lazy hand as I scribble away in my notebook. I just sat there and before I knew it i’d written six pages, and I hardly had to think. A smile crept across my face, and I was reminded that these magic moments are what writing is all about. Most of the time it can be a hike up a hill, where you stop every few seconds to look at the horizon, hoping it doesn’t get dark, but then there are those times where you scale it in several steps and marvel at the horizon.

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