If you've stumbled across my blog as a fellow writer, the craziness that goes through my head daily will not be a surprise for you. But if you aren't a writer, buckle up. I'm about to let you into the madness.
I write stories in my head constantly. If I'm sitting at a coffee shop, and a woman comes in, I create a story for her. The way she whips her hair over her shoulder, and subtly glances at the attractive man in line behind her. If I'm outside in the evening sun, I create "meet-cutes" in my head for characters and lay out the exact moment their lives change forever, just by the mere presence of the other person. It's constant. My mind never shuts off. There is always a story to be told, an emotion to emit, a feeling to describe.
My debut novel began in my head. I was on a long car ride, alone. (Or at least I felt alone because the people in the backseat had headphones on and were buried in their screens) I started writing a book. Chapter 1. Kate Malone (her name literally popped into my head) has a conflict. The conflict brings her to the other side of the world, Tanzania to be exact. Chapter 2. The meet-cute happens. Tall, handsome, undeniably awesome human Andrew enters the story.
By the time my three-hour car ride was finished, I had written a few chapters, all in my head. And even more, I knew where the story was going. Where it needed to go. What message I had to relay. And, in my head, I had the last page written, the denouement. It was going to be beautiful. I spent the next few days finishing the novel in my head, and then I went back to real life.
This wasn't the first novel I'd written in my head, but it was the first time I stopped and thought to myself, "Why don't I actually write this down?" So I did. I wrote, wrote, and wrote some more, until one month later, I had a crappy first draft, 100,000 words, riddled with grammatical errors, plot holes, and overall junk. But who cares? I wrote a book! An actual book!
Since my first memory of being young, I've been creating stories in my head. I assumed that was normal. Perhaps it is. Or perhaps, that was the first sign that I am a writer.
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