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Rambling about unwritten story...
Feb. 4th, 2008 02:03 amIt's kind of unlike me to post spontaneously like this, but insomnia must be loosening my inhibitions.
I very rarely suffer from that, but now it's two a m and I can't sleep. There's a story unfolding in my head--the germ has been there for some time, but now it's kind of growing, like it wants out. It's cool when that happens, though it doesn't necessarily mean I'll write the story soon (I'm a slow writer, and I have WIPs to finish).
See, when Martha was seventeen the boy from the next farm over proposed to her, and she turned him down flat. Her father was furious with her, and threw her out. So the schoolteacher, Miss Edwards, fixed her a room with her aunt in the city. Now she's sitting in the window of her tiny attic room with a quilt around her shoulders, writing a letter to Miss Edwards about her first week in the city. The room is cold, but she's used to that...
Eh, and so on... This story scares the shit out of me, because what on Earth do I know about 1920's Canada? For example, I really don't know what kind of education would be available to Martha. *considers Googling "history of higher education in Canada"* I mean, stories about camping on the tundra? That's easy, because I've done that. But this? *runs and hides*
Oh, oh, and then she meets George: Martha's reading in the library, tugging absently at her braid, and he's peeking at her from between the shelves, wanting to know who she is, but not quite daring to approach...
Arrgh. Now that I've gotten this out of my system, please let me sleep. (Not that I'm particularly looking forward to tomorrow, because I have to write grant applications, and they make me want to throw up.)
I very rarely suffer from that, but now it's two a m and I can't sleep. There's a story unfolding in my head--the germ has been there for some time, but now it's kind of growing, like it wants out. It's cool when that happens, though it doesn't necessarily mean I'll write the story soon (I'm a slow writer, and I have WIPs to finish).
See, when Martha was seventeen the boy from the next farm over proposed to her, and she turned him down flat. Her father was furious with her, and threw her out. So the schoolteacher, Miss Edwards, fixed her a room with her aunt in the city. Now she's sitting in the window of her tiny attic room with a quilt around her shoulders, writing a letter to Miss Edwards about her first week in the city. The room is cold, but she's used to that...
Eh, and so on... This story scares the shit out of me, because what on Earth do I know about 1920's Canada? For example, I really don't know what kind of education would be available to Martha. *considers Googling "history of higher education in Canada"* I mean, stories about camping on the tundra? That's easy, because I've done that. But this? *runs and hides*
Oh, oh, and then she meets George: Martha's reading in the library, tugging absently at her braid, and he's peeking at her from between the shelves, wanting to know who she is, but not quite daring to approach...
Arrgh. Now that I've gotten this out of my system, please let me sleep. (Not that I'm particularly looking forward to tomorrow, because I have to write grant applications, and they make me want to throw up.)
