The Property Room, Arthur Hughes

When I’m writing new narrative, trying to, I hate the deep uncertainty that yawns a great dark abyss in my consciousness, bare of every worthwhile thought except the idiotic gibberish the mind throws up like dream waste. I’ve heard it said that one scene grows from another, but that rarely happens to me. I guess it’s because I’m not a linear thinker, and my stories grow out of patchwork writing. Sometimes a scene comes easily, composing itself as I think it through on the page, but most are like hewing stone from a mountain.

Right now I’m working my way up the sheer cliff of a new scene in Sweet Taboo. I think the story needs this scene; I think it works, or will work, in the action of the plot. And I think the big problem I’m having is I have not prepared my mind, not filled the well, with the details I need to write it–so it’s balking, and I’m dangling off the cliff, wailing.


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