There is a moment, and it happens for me often when I am taken to another time, or another place. Where I witness a glimpse of a story. Scenes dance within my sight, some blurry, some clear, and a yearning to see it all overcomes me.
Yesterday I had a moment. It was a short one, nothing that I could sit down and write an 85,000-word novel with, but it was the start. It was the beginning of a brew, a concoction of sorts that will soon be given a hearty dose of substance any good story needs.
It is time to make soup.
Yes, my stories are much like soup, a warm cup of bisque that nourishes the soul. Who doesn’t like soup? It has the necessity for anyone to live AND sustains my need to write.
But just like any recipe if you don’t have the right ingredients your soup will become bland and boring, and worse uneaten. You have to crave the flavor, the mixture of spices blended together to entice your senses.
I can stir a pot of flavorless broth for months, with nothing to add to it. I will not lie this perplexes,
It takes patience, and I have none.
I’m Italian for goodness sakes time is something we are not good at. However, these things need to work themselves out…and so I ponder the characters, their conflicts, who, what, where, and damn it, why?
I stoke the fire, heating the broth as I stir some more.
This moment—this soup—will become more than cloudy water. It will become my life for the next three months. I will eat, sleep and breathe my brew allowing it to wrap around my heart and move my fingers to tell the story that has been dormant inside of my soul.
I will write until the pot is empty, until I have nothing left and then…I will make more soup.