  Drama
This week: Face the Fear Edited by: NickiD89  
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On a warm spring day this year, my daughter opened a canvas camping chair and settled in to read a book in the shade of our small front porch. That evening, instead of hauling the chair back to the garage like she should have, she pulled up on the four corners of the chair back and seat front, collapsing the chair up into a vertical bundle. She stood it in the corner next to the front door and then went into the house.
A week later, we noticed the nest.
A mama Bewick's Sparrow had discovered the hammock-y nook that the seat bottom created, sheltered on all sides by folds of stiff canvas. She'd deemed it the perfect spot to nest, and before long we spied six speckled eggs atop a bed of woven twigs and straw.
Try as we did, remembering to use an alternate exit from the house proved difficult, and the regular traffic of neighborhood kids ringing the doorbell in search of playmates increased with the lengthening days. Each time someone drew near, Mama Sparrow took panicked, sputtering flight, several times smacking into the porch eaves in her haste to flee.
Then one day, she just never returned. Without her attention, the abandoned eggs succumbed to the elements, their precious contents surrendering to the chilly spring air.
As a novelist I am like that Mama Sparrow. I build a story nest. I outline on paper, weaving character sketches with plot points, constructing something tangible from the ideas floating in the quiet safety of my imagination. A new project excites me; it consumes my waking thoughts. As I wash the dishes, the characters speak. When I fold the laundry, scenes play out. Driving the car, I see setting landscapes rise on the horizon of my mind. All the eggs are laid. Nothing left to do but roost and write.
Something happens to me at this point in the project. I'm spooked. I stare at the blank screen. I begin the first chapter, but wind up scratching the first scene. I start over with a different character, or put him in a different room, outdoors, three days before, one month later...
I give myself time off. Sometimes, I'm told, stepping back from the project gets the creative fires burning again. I try anew, and the same thing happens. I jump back again in panicked, sputtering flight.
And I've learned that when I flee often enough, the fragile ideas sense impeding abandonment. They cool off and perish, like unattended eggs in a nest.
For whatever reason, I don't struggle this way with my short fiction. And I question whether I'm just being stubborn in my desire to write a novel. Then I recognize, again, the fear lingering in-between the words in that sentence. The urge for flight is strong, but my love for writing and faith in the process must be stronger.
And the moral of this story is this: Story ideas, like any artistic inspiration, must be acted upon in the heat of that initial, stimulating enthusiasm. How many times have you been driving down the road and a brilliant idea for a character comes to you? And how many times have you later gone to your computer to write about her, and her essence has evaporated from your mind like mist in morning sunlight? Writers can't put off inspiration. Not for a busy schedule, not for lack of sleep, and certainly not for fear.
Do you have any tips for getting past those first chapters in a new novel project? And how do you face your writing fears?
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| |  | Splinter (ASR)
The story of a man so obsessed with his own legacy it consumes him and those who worry.
#1776407 by Madness  |
Excerpt: I guess that means I'll build forever, that my life will be an endless revision, but somehow knowing I'll always have a path to follow soothes my aching feet. Even if my brain's rattled, my hands are calloused and my shoulders are hunched. The only thing I really mind are the splinters.
| |  | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1763318 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: The night is coming and with it comes such terrible, undeniable things. The true perils of my life exist within the darkness of each new night. The dark creature of my world seeks its just rewards long after the sun hides away. It will not be denied. I am never safe, regardless of what I do to hide myself within my room.
Excerpt: She stiffens in her sleep. The dream begins as it always does, but this time she knows. "I am dreaming," she repeats in her head. It was a common nightmare. The Internet said she was just anxious; scared of growing old. Of losing beauty. Of loneliness. "It's only a dream. Dream. Dream. Dream."
| | Fear (13+)
A Poe style poem. (Edited!) The first poem I ever wrote.
#145254 by Wenston |
Excerpt: It is a cold and lonely fearsome night / that fills my very soul with fright / fright that fills my cold dead eyes / eyes that see the shadows fleeing / and wish to God they were not seeing.
Excerpt: I met Jason Cantor two years ago when I moved to New York City. He was a quiet man with a frightened look in his pale blue eyes.
Excerpt: This is a true story, unfortunately. Many of my paranoid fantasies are embellished, though, as humor can help one to deal with traumatic episodes. Also, unreasonable paranoia is the name of the game when it comes to arachnophobia-or any phobia, for that matter-so the embellishments do not exaggerate my true mindset by as much as you may think.
Excerpt: Her fear of the summer storms grew in intensity with each passing year. It all began on a family camping trip when the kids were still quite small. They'd all been enjoying themselves fishing, swimming and playing games on a typical July afternoon. During a conversation with her sister in law, Anna had glanced toward the western end of the lake and stopped talking in mid sentence, realizing that something didn't look quite right.
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#745879 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: I was bent over, hands on my knees, the cold night air burning my throat with each raspy breath. My heart thundered so loud in my ears I thought it was going to beat right out of my chest. Every cell of my body was alive and pumping with adrenalin. A foggy mist swirled around enveloping me in its cold embrace. Overwhelmed with primal fear, my actions were irrational and spontaneous. Survival was my only thought, my only driving force. Keep moving. Keep alive.
Excerpt: Brad didn't know what hit him. One moment he was trying to get his footing, the next he was pushed away with such a tremendous force that he fell to the floor in pain and surprise. He lifted his gaze slowly to the most frightening sight. It was something he would never forget as long as he lived. He'd even swear that it wasn't his wife standing above him.
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#803990 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: Andrea's heart was pounding, her breaths came quicker as she checked the lock on her doors for a third time. She knew someone was going to break into her home. Trembling, she doubled-checked her windows. Why do I have such fear someone is going to break in and hurt me? Tears slid down her cheeks. Ever since she started living by herself, her worst fear was to wake up and have someone standing over her, watching her, and doing unspeakable acts.
Submitted Items
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1770925 by Not Available. |
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Here's what you said about my recent Drama Newsletter "How To Heighten Drama in Writing; Part Two: Add Intensity to Your Writing":
Danger Mouse  : Thanks Nicki, You gave some good advice about heightening drama.
An imagination is a wonderful thing, and when a writer explains everything in a scene they aren't letting the reader use theirs.
Great newsletter
Vickie
I agree, engaging readers so that their imaginations participate in the story is one of the keys to successful writing.
BIG BAD WOLF is Merry  : Sometimes you have to do some thinking.
I try to think all of the time. 
SantaBee  : Nicki, great example of 'flat' writing and writing that engages. It was short, sweet, and to the point.
Thanks so much, Steph!
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Drama: June 15, 2011 Issue [#4445]
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