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I very rarely start to read anything and then don't finish it. In fact, these days, I usually read things in one sitting. I read fast enough that that's, say, six hours or so for a very, very long novel, and with my schedule I can do that. When I have a good book or fic I've been interrupted in the middle of, there's this weird feeling that keeps nagging at me, like when I've been rudely woken in the middle of good REM sleep: the story hangs on at the edge of my mind, not letting me rest or dig in to anything else until I go back to finish it. If I wonder what I should be doing, the story is the first thing that comes to mind.
I've been having that feeling consistently for about twenty-four hours now. Only-- it's not a story I'm reading. It's a story that doesn't even exist. It's a plot bunny that I got only yesterday, which has only been sketched out in the vaguest manner, and needs massive background research before I can lay down even the basics of the storyline. I have a setting, three lines of dialogue, four characters and a dog, and one incident that might or might not work as a key scene. That's it.
Yeah, I do get attacked by ideas frequently and live much of my life in fictional universes that exist only in my head, but this has never happened to me before. I wake up from a nap, or finish an errand for Mom, and think to myself, "Okay, what do I want to do now-- right, go downstairs and finish reading that fic." Beat. "Wait, that fic exists only in my head." It's *bizarre*. And I can't get into reading or writing any other fic, because of the "unfinished book" feeling that's nagging at me. I would just sit down and write it till it goes away, but it's at such a basic level that I don't have anything to write. Bizarre.
I've been having that feeling consistently for about twenty-four hours now. Only-- it's not a story I'm reading. It's a story that doesn't even exist. It's a plot bunny that I got only yesterday, which has only been sketched out in the vaguest manner, and needs massive background research before I can lay down even the basics of the storyline. I have a setting, three lines of dialogue, four characters and a dog, and one incident that might or might not work as a key scene. That's it.
Yeah, I do get attacked by ideas frequently and live much of my life in fictional universes that exist only in my head, but this has never happened to me before. I wake up from a nap, or finish an errand for Mom, and think to myself, "Okay, what do I want to do now-- right, go downstairs and finish reading that fic." Beat. "Wait, that fic exists only in my head." It's *bizarre*. And I can't get into reading or writing any other fic, because of the "unfinished book" feeling that's nagging at me. I would just sit down and write it till it goes away, but it's at such a basic level that I don't have anything to write. Bizarre.
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But, maybe I'll try.
Just another inane comment
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Oh yeah... advice from someone that has NEVER finished anything he's started. Im sure that's useful... =^.^=
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I considered doing on online search for something similar, but even if I found it it'd probably just make me even more confused.
Um. Lessee. Yeah, starting something is a good way to make it go away, though. So, the lines I have:
Mulder pulled a plaid deerstalker cap off the shelf and grinned. "So, what do you think, my friend and companion? Is it me? Tall and intriguingly lean?"
Scully pursed her lips. "Mulder, please. Take that off. And no," she added, unable to supress a hint of a smile. "I seriously doubt Sherlock Holmes would have already decided our culprit was ghosts."
"Actually, that's probably more accurate than you know," said a voice behind them, sounding slightly amused. They swung around to look. A plump, gray-haired woman in sensible jeans and a turtleneck had come through the massive oak door which connected to the rest of the house. "Agents Mulder and Scully, right?" she said with a friendly smile. "I'm Laney Harrison, one of the volunteers here. Chief Peters told me to meet you?"
"Yes," Scully said, putting on her business expression while Mulder shamefacedly pulled off the hat. "I'm Agent Scully. Thank you for coming out at such short notice."
"Oh, that's all right," she said, waving a hand. "I was working in the office-- that's why the gift shop was still unlocked. I often stay out here till all hours."
"Ms. Harrison," Mulder interrupted.
"Lainey," she corrected firmly.
"Lainey," he replied, with an impish look in Scully's direction. "What did you mean when you said it was more accurate than we thought?"
"Well, just that that's the most fascinating part of the story we're telling here," she said. "Everyone knows about Sherlock Holmes; the consummate detective, scientific, logical, capable of solving the most outlandish mysteries from the smallest clues, convinced taht everything had a rational, decipherable solution. And then there's the other side, the writer, Conan Doyle, who was endlessly fascinated by the supernatural, who spent the last half of his life trying passionately to prove that fairies and ghosts were for real. We play up the Holmes stuff for the tourists," she waved a hand around the gift shop, "but the Spiritualism history is Doyle's real connection to the house, and most of the people involved with the foundation are a lot more interested in that. That's why the ghost idea came up so quickly when this happened."
"And you?" Scully asked sharply. "Do you believe it was ghosts?"
"Well. That's a tough question." She scratched the back of her neck, nervoulsy, then moved away behind the counter, and started ruffling through the mess there. "I guess I *want* to beleive. But I've never seen any hard evidence that couldn't be explained some other well. And I've studied Conan Doyle for a long time-- I'm a historian, it's my job to learn from other people's mistakes. Doyle was so determined to prove his beliefs-- so messianically convinced that the evidence he needed to show everyone the truth was out there-- that it almost destroyed his life. He lost what respect he had in the scientific and literary communites, squandered his time and his money, and had to keep watching his proof turn to ashes in in his fingertips. It's a beatiful, tragic story. So I guess I, personally, am reserving judgement on the subject of beleif."
She hadn't looked up at them during her speech, apparently looking for somethingthing, then she made a triumphant sound a held up a ring of keys. "Found 'em! Andy never puts them away properly at closing up. So, want the special hauntings tour of the house? It's my specialty, I can give you all the creepy details. With footnotes."
Wow. Maybe I had more than I thought I did. But I can't go any farther withou actually knowing the history of the house, and that's what I need research for.
The dog doesn't talk. But he's cool.
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Hang online a couple more minutes and you'll get a cookie.
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