I completed the first draft of my third C.J. Stone story today, and am having trouble remembering the day I began. The story is 16 pages, and I wrote a page some days, two pages others. By this weekend, the story demanded to be finished, not because I knew how things would end, but because I needed to be typing away to figure out how they would end.
There was something inquisitive, insistent, about the process. In a way, writing was like hitting a heavy bag, making it jump. Early in the story, I stopped when I couldn't see what happened next, but something wouldn't let me put the story aside long enough to do other, just as worthy tasks. That driving force might have been the knowledge that if I let the story slide too long, I'd lose it. I'd lose my initial good idea for the story. I'd lose the willingness to follow that foolhardy voice that wakes writers up in the wee hours saying, "How 'bout it?" I'd lose touch with the characters as I have with high school friends and forget the way their caps sit on their heads, the way they laugh. I'd lose that knack for finishing their sentences.
As I reached the end, I realized I could no longer take measured, comfortable steps. The more I heard "That's enough for today," the more I rebelled, caught up in the stakes of the story.
Thinking how much there was to lose, right down to the story's pulse, scared me into sticking with it.
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