Call it what you will… an inspiration that won’t move forward or a tale with no path, whatever it is, I abhor it. It climbs in my psyche like a vicious parasite gnawing away at my creative process. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat and through it all, the only thing I can think of is, “Where is the story?” The only relief will come by finding it. I know the premise is sound, the characters believable, and the audience eager. Now all I have to do is my part. I have to connect the dots from the opening sentence and weave coherent prose that moves the reader, because isn’t that what we as writers are trying to do? …… Move the reader.
I was stuck. I couldn’t find the story. So, I gathered my wits, uncovered my beloved Pearl, and rolled away on a blustery Sunday afternoon, the low rumble of the Harley V-Twin singing a song of transport. With the wind in my face and the machine tuned to perfection, I split my focus between the highway and the story begging to be written and click away the miles. Suddenly, as if I had ridden through the winds of inspiration, the story was there in the form of a three act play. The characters made sense and the plot sang to me like it was a choir sitting in the pew behind me. It was as exhilarating as the motorcycle beneath me.
Now I gotta go write the damn thing!