For Get Writing - a literary event taking place in Feb which I will be attending - I decided to investigate some of the authors who are going to be there (when I say investigate I don't mean stalking). One of the authors recently contributed to the VWC's blog space - Leigh Russell- and I heard she had a blog so decided to read it and I was quite surprised by a particular post. (I recommend her blog btw)
Now at Blast, whenever someone finished a story, they said that it was a brilliant feeling; like they had really accomplished something. And don't get me wrong they had - it isn't easy to write a book when you're between the ages of 13-19. Most don't do it. It's rare someone does. Now, I was told after completing Blood Moon that I was the third person on there to finish a story of that length. Ok, am straying off the point here - what I was meant to say is that I know its an accomplishment. But when I finished Blood Moon I felt...nothing. Actually, I felt quite lost. I'd just finished something that had taken up seven months of my spare time doing...and now I had nothing to do.
On this post it mentioned something about it being an anti-climax (in the comments bit. I am nosy) and it never occurred to me before - finally something huge that I had undertaken was finished. It was done. Now I was left with what felt like...nothing. I had no new ideas. There was nothing screaming out to me to be written. I wrote one short story in that time (it wasn't brilliant) and I felt myself going a bit mad. My mind was demanding something to be written. Something to be created. It didn't matter what the hell it was, it just had to be something. And in a fit of madness or pure writing passion the poem Waiting was made. In I think about ten minutes. It was a long time after all.
For a few weeks after that, there really wasn't that much more that I wanted to write. I read the beginning of Blood Moon to the VWC - but it didn't feel right. My writing had changed enormously from when I had started. For better or worse am still not sure.
I was on a train to Brighton and was looking out the window. I noticed a station called Burgess Hill. It struck me then that it would be a really good name for a story. The idea followed a few weeks later. A notepad was bought (in Scotland, this was during the school holidays) and Burgess Hill was born. (For anyone who cares the surname of C is Inveroy - reference to Inveraray where the notepad was bought from) It wasn't the type of story that I am used to writing but it was different. That helped satisfy my need to write.
I tried out Burgess Hill on the Blastites. They seemed to like it. After a few weeks of gathering courage to read in front of the VWC (still do struggle with it. I blush every time I read. Highly embarrassing. I think my shyness is increased because a) they're all adults and b) they're all more experienced than me. They are lovely people though if a little intimidating) I read out the first bit of Burgess Hill. They seemed to like it.
I think I always will have a problem with my writing. I am one of those people who are never satisfied with their work. I always listen to the bad because I know that shows I have room for improvement. However I tend to only listen to the bad, which I need to sort out.
Anywho I shall stop boring you all with this. And tell you something interesting. My muse today is an orange cat with purple polka dots on it. Cos that is how I roll. *puts sunglasses on*
Am resisting the urge to write anymore of Underdog. I need to get Burgess Hill part one done before I can start writing that. Even though at the moment it feels like my notepad is calling to me.
Take care me dears and I hope you're muses visit you all tonight and inspire you to do something wonderful.