The Writing Will Come

So today I did what I always do when I am plagued with doubt: I revisited my baby.

"My baby," otherwise referred to as "Niel," was the first real novel I ever wrote. It was a 9th grade achievement, written in the wings of the stage during play practice for Alice in Wonderland. I was a chorus member, and instead of focusing on costuming or cool effects or even really learning my lines (demoting me to a parrot) I scribbled in the half-light.

The reason I always go back to "Niel" when I am in a slump is because it was work, but not the work we associate with getting up at 6:00 in the morning, commuting, and filing papers. It was work that started with a vision. Late one night, after coming home from some practice or other (I want to say drama rehearsal, but it might have been a band performance), a girl spoke to me, and she said, "A penny for your thoughts."

But, I realized then, she was not talking to me. There was a boy there, in the early morning light, and he was the one she was addressing.

There was a problem. The girl did not know it, but I knew there was a problem.

The boy was mute. He could not speak.

Why was this girl talking to a boy who could not speak? And what would the boy do in the absense of words?

This late-night inspiration would fuel 300 pages, last me from October to December, and basically put off what I know now but did not realize then was a full-on panic attack. Writing "Niel," saved me, and I will never understand or know how, but these characters exist somewhere, and they chose me to relay the story to.

It was not easy. Some days the words did not come. But for one page, for a few lines, they had spoken clearly, and I knew as long as I was faithful, my characters would stay true.

The writings of a 9th grader on the verge of a nervous breakdown are not pretty. They are muddy and grammatically poor. Yet I love that story. So for the last few days I went back to "Niel," and I have dedicated hours to slogging over just two pages, staring at the words until, as one famous author said, drops of blood appear on my forehead. And the result is the writing of a college junior: a little frazzled, a little intimidated, on the brink of a grand adventure. 

I do not know if my writing is good yet. I do not know if it will ever be good. But when the words won't come I remember how a little girl whispered in my ear, and how the rest, while work, while effort, will come.