The Beginning, A Story
At the beginning, a story is a rough and amorphous mass of renegade thoughts and a couple concrete ideas. In the beginning, it sometimes requires a heroic effort to pick and prune, to sculpt and sketch all the particles of the story, necessary or unnecessary, into something that can eventually be used. At the beginning, a character can be an incorporeal haunt, half-formed, some bodiless soul or soulless body hitched, now temporarily, to renegade thoughts and a few concrete ideas; a character whose being completely depends on which way the story writes; whose story completely depends on who the character is. For in the beginning, I try to let the story write itself. I try to allow enough space for the shapeless to become now shaped in a geometry of my own design. Sometimes the key to the whole story telling itself, comes too early or too late. (What if it never comes?) It came today.
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