I love the feeling of starting a new story. Writing a new story, more specifically. By this time, it’s been bouncing around my head for a while. But putting it down on paper is something else altogether. It reminds me of being a kid, at those fossil digs at museums and amusement parks where they bury fake bones for kids to uncover. I was always so sure I was going to dig up a real, undiscovered fossil.
That’s the thing about new stories. I don’t know what they’ll be yet. I have no idea what they’ll mean to me, or to anyone else. They could be transforming, in some small, simple way. I have no idea. But I have to write them, to find out. It’s about so much more than publishing. It’s about telling the story because it deserves to be told, has to be told. Because I still think I might dig up a real, undiscovered fossil.
And I do — every time I describe a character and figure out what they really look like. Every time I write a dialogue and think, “Oh, so that’s your motivation.” Every time an exciting scene grows out of something I was wondering if my character could do.
So many people have described it so much better than I can. Writing something new is, for me, a kind of hope that is unique and beautiful and that I hope I never lose — even if I am the only one who ever sees these fossils.