A thought that springs to mind: fully-formed and dressed in spandex (maybe with some sort of little cape, nothing too long though, or it'd get in the way if you had to go the toilet in a hurry, say after a dodgy kebab) is that I haven't got a clue what I'm doing. JamesO's post about the whiteness of his whiteboard has brought to mind mine own dilemma*: what the hell am I going to do about getting Book 4 underway?
Normally there's some hook that starts the things off. A phrase that the Ideas Fairy wedges in my lughole at some inappropriate time, that everything else will hang off, like bogies from nose hairs, just waiting for the sneeze of creativity to splatter them out across the hanky of literature. How's that for a metaphor? Eh? Eh? That's writing gold, that is.
I posted in James's comments that the bit before one starts writing should be a golden time -- best part of the whole experience. The page is blank, the possibilities are endless, and as you've not written a single word, you can't have fucked anything up yet. After this it's all downhill. It's like being God, only you don't have to bodge through everything in six days so you can have Sunday off to watch the football and eat chips down the pub with your mates. Maybe go for a curry afterwards. Vomit somewhere colourful, stagger home, and fall asleep on the toilet. That kind of thing.
So how come I'm not started yet? How come I'm sat here, watching aphids committing suicide by flying into the hot bulb of my desk lamp (technically it's not the heat of the lap that kills them: it's the falling stunned to my desk that does it, because that's were I squash the little buggers) and eating Jelly Bean Factory gourmet beans?
Up till now I've been telling myself that I don't want to get cracking on Book Number The Fourth until BROKEN SKIN's out of the way. Seems sensible, keep everything compartmentalised and sorted. After all, you have to remember that I have a very small brain and it gets confused hell of an easy. But the line edit's done; the blessed St Sarah of Fulham Palace Road is putting the finishing touches to the pre-proof copy; and we're good to go. And still that little bogey of beginnings does elude my poking finger**.
And while we're on the subject of nasal creative passages, I am happy to announce that it looks like I'll be going back under the knife to rectify some of the less satisfactory aspects of my sinus surgery. Hurrah! How cool is that? Sound bells and bastarding, bloody trumpets. Just what I need -- more time bleeding. To be honest, I think I've nearly plumbed the depths of that particular happy-fun pastime.
Anyway, back to the point, assuming there ever was one: how to mine the old creative nostril for a nugget of sticky story goodness. I think that tomorrow will be spent soaking in the bath, musing, and maybe playing with a rubber duck***. That'll get things going.
If that fails, I'll post a picture of the inside of my fridge. Well, it works for some people.
* Good God: self-indulgent rambling on Halfhead, bearded blog to the unwashed and dishevelled masses? Who'd a thunk it?
** See: going back to the nose / mucus metaphor -- that's a sign of classy writering, that is.
*** And no, that's not an euphemism.