I had a moment today — my first, so far as I can remember (at least the first that counts), panicked napkin-writing moment.
I’ve finally been writing. As with most things I do, creative-wise, I spent months putting together fine details, building plot and character in my brain, and now I’m spilling it out in relatively even bursts of 10 or so pages a day, plus even more raw notes to be distilled later. It’s a decent pace, and one that I hope to maintain for a while, even if it means I lose a touch of sleep.
I’m sure I’ve written things on napkins before, in haste or laziness, but this was the first time I’d been hit by something so immediate and crucial that it had to be down rightnowrightherenoquestionsaskedorelseyouforget. The first time I’d been hit by a crystalizing idea and not in the presence of paper, or a notebook, or a computer — the only things at my disposal a pen and a Starbucks. Their brown recycled napkins are surprisingly resilient, and hold ideas well.
The moment felt interesting, as have a number of others lately as I feel more like a writer than I have since I wrote my infamous play, and perhaps even much moreso as this one feels much more real. Is this true inspiration? Is this how it feels? Draggy from lack of sleep, but rushed from energy and excitement to get things on paper?
It’s fun, whatever it is.
Side note: Various tonics (Limoncello and soda), as well as deliciousdelicious scotch — relaxing writing companions in small doses (not to be a lush of course — I’m not patterning myself THAT much after Raymond Carver — but just that tiny bit lubricating you need to eliminate some of the worrying filters on occasion). Drambuie, on the other hand? Soporific to an extent I didn’t think possible. Fell right asleep in my Syd Field book (I know, I know…) while seated upright at a desk.