I spend my life writing scribbles. I have all different breeds of scraps of paper, each with a scrawled note decorating it. They are story ideas, character names, settings I will return to one day in the far off future. I have amassed quite a collection of these notes, all housed in a large black notebook that also features ideas that I can write down at home. It’s called (imaginatively) the Ideas Book.
But when asked to choose a story to write for one of my modules, the scribbles might have well have turned to dust. All of them seem childish, insignificant, or mostly, something that’s been done before. Filling out the proposal form filled me with such dread that I could feel panicked tears rising in my throat. What could I, me, little old me, possibly write that would be worthy? Am I worthy?
“Fake it until you make it” came up in one of last week’s lectures. I have put that plan into action. As I writer, I thought to myself, I have the ability to make any idea wonderful, as long as I dedicate myself to it. As soon as I decided that it was impossible for me to fail, my pen started to flow more freely. I’m not a writer yet but I’m getting jolly good at pretending to be one.
My story involves a teenage Victorian time traveller who has a difficult relationship with his father. I have no idea where this train of thought is going, but I plan to enjoy the view until the next stop. I think this is a healthy attitude to have towards all writing. We had a meeting this week about our final year project, the Extended Creative Project, the big one, the twenty-per-cent-of-my-entire-degree one. Yeah. I’m glad I’ve had this epiphany about organic writing processes now instead of at the start of third year.
It just shows what you can achieve when you disregard all elements of fear. I should remember this. I feel all enlightened and philosophical right now. It may just be time to put pen to paper.