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The care and tending-to of story ideas
Concealed in my closet amongst actual shoes there rests a Converse shoebox full of something else. Something altogether unshoelike.
Twenty years ago, I tucked every story idea that danced through my head into that same shoebox. I was too full of story ideas, beginnings and characters to actually sit down and develop any of them, but I’d get around to it someday.
Someday, I knew, those little scraps of paper would metamorphosis into page after page of beautiful tales.
In my mid-teens, I met my first boyfriend and stopped opening the shoebox. Still, I moved the box with me when I headed to Los Angeles for law school.
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After you’ve read the rest of this post over at Avery’s Book Nook (a delightful nook indeed!), I’d love your thoughts–over there–on your own story ideas. Do you keep them? If so, for how long? Have you ever found yourself revisiting any of them later? I’d love to know what you do with the ideas you can’t yet use!
Thank you for any comments you leave there. Guest posting feels like being the new kid in school, which isn’t so bad at all once folks start saying hi.
The Monster’s Daughter, circa November 1992
I turned 14 a few days before I started working on the handwritten story that’d later become The Monster’s Daughter. I just pulled out all 120 pages of that handwritten early draft. I’ve only read the first page, but it makes me giggle.
Here’s a touching excerpt:
“So, have you decided yet? Will you go out with me?”
“Rob, I knew a long time ago that I did not want to go out with you. And I told you so, too.”
He gave me a look that said, “I know you’re just too embarrassed to go out with me. You might feel too inferior.” Egomaniacal. And that’s only one of the many reasons I won’t go out with him.
“Anyway, Rob, even if I did want to go out with you–and I don’t–my dad wouldn’t let me.” Bullshit my dad wouldn’t let me. I could skip school for a week, go have a vacation with forty guys and pay for it all with money I took from him and he wouldn’t care. “Bye, Rob,” I said as I pushed myself away from the table. If I didn’t pick up my tray, one of the table monitors would get it eventually.
Oh, 14-year-old Deb, you were adorable! I could just tickle you, if I didn’t think you’d punch me in the face for trying.
Do I have the courage to read on? I’d love to remember the story my 14-year-old self meant to tell, but doing so means foregoing my Jellicoe Road reading time! That’s even apart from the fact reading all those pages requires actually, well, reading all those pages and thus seeing into my 14-year-old brain. Do I dare? Do I dare, especially remembering the very unfortunate meeting between Rob and Ari’s dad?
…
I’d appreciate it if one of y’all could bust out a fortitude buff!
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