Those of you who’ve followed my socials or rooted around in my archives here know that I typically write anecdotes, quirky haiku, caption photographs, and express the whirl of whimsy that is my stream of consciousness in short form. My goal is to entertain my readers and leave them smiling to themselves, musing even, without making them tap their watch or look for the nearest exit.
I am not a novelist. At least I never thought so. However, like most people who write, I’ve had a plotline rattling around in my head, and my desk drawer, for a long time. I mean, since before-the-internet-became-a-thing type of long time. My draft exists in longhand form. It waits patiently for me to pick it up, briefly ruminate over it while riddled with self-doubt, only to be abandoned for another year or six.
This evening, while waiting for Trick or Treaters, I dusted off the folder containing the old, longhand draft. Thalia’s first whisper in my ear, if you will. A story idea that is as familiar to me as my own name but whose conclusion is a distant echo I can’t quite hear. Tonight, I read it again for what always feels like the first time.
I thought it would be awful. Honestly, I hoped it would be awful. I planned to snort at it with derision and marvel at how I ever thought it was worth writing. Then I could Marie Kondo the whole thing and get on with my life with newfound joy; no more whispers from partially developed characters haunting me from the drawer. I’d be free.
I slipped the college ruled paper from the folder and smiled at my handwriting. It’s a mix of printing and cursive within each word. It’d make an effective code with the demise of cursive and penmanship classes. As I read, to my surprise, I became immersed, eagerly turning pages until, abruptly, I came to the last word on the last page. It hung there, dangling mid-sentence. If there was a literary award for inadvertent cliffhangers, I’d win. I have a feeling the award would be rescinded once the committee realized I had no idea what came next. I guess I’ll save my acceptance speech.
I flipped the last page over and back as if the story would emerge from the paper like a specter from the fog on All Hallows’ Eve. It was then that I realized, in the spirit of the evening and Monty Python, that my ancient plot is not dead yet. My own curiosity had jolted it back to life, freeing it from its drawer to a place atop my desk. I’d better put something else in that drawer to appease the spirits who haunt all who put pen to paper. A list of past New Year’s Resolutions should suffice.
As dawn approaches on the first of November, the veil between worlds closes and those who write shall be possessed by a new, yet ambitious, spirit. November is the month dedicated to the challenge of writing 50,000 words, the equivalent of a novel. Thirty days to turn an idea or an unfinished draft into a working novel. With my haunted draft in hand, I’ve decided to give it a shot using an online platform to experience the camaraderie of the challenge and avail myself of community resources. As I set up my account and type in the specifics for my draft, I’ve been asked for a working title. At this juncture, “The Lazarus Papers” seems appropriate. Stay tuned.
If you’d like to see how I’ve spent Halloween in the past, check out these articles:
