Fanfic Ideas and the Creative Process... (was Quidditch!Ron)

[Scott]

--Wonderful post Ebony! I completely agree about writing; I've always 
desperately wanted to be a writer, but I just can't seem to weave 
stories like so many of you can.

I wish that I had the option of taking a creative writing class, but 
I don't. There's interest among teachers and a few students, but only 
a few. I hope that once again one is put into place in our school 
system, but I'll be gone by then. I've never learned to plot or craft 
my words. It's not pushed in our schools. Heaven help you if you 
can't right good comparative analysis or essays though. And don't get 
me wrong they're important, but not nearly as hard a craft as good 
fiction. My English teacher and I would debate this, and usually I 
would win, characterisation *is* harder than supporting a thesis IMO.

The first series of chapter books I ever remember reading were the 
Boxcar Children. Does anyone remember those. I would constantly be 
thinking up fanfiction though at the time I had no idea that's what 
it was. I would be sitting in math class or in the hall on the way to 
lunch, but in my mind I would be traveling to some exotic country and 
solving mysteries, untangling enigmas with these fictional characters 
that I'd taken under my wing and allowed to blossom into with life in 
my mind.

My friends and I would pretend we were animals in the jungles of 
Africa, that we were teachers, or the owners of a multi-national 
banking corporation. We would be a family surving the harsh life of 
the prairie, or orphaned children put out of our homes by fire, 
trying to survive on the street. I have a wonderful imagination, and 
I prize right up there with my family, my friends, my health...  

Oh sure I have so many ideas that my mind is constantly swimming, but 
there they stay.  

I want to share the stories that are swiming before my eyes; the 
memories that just won't go away. I want to tell the story of the 
lonely little girl in the New York theatre, all alone in her private 
box, and leaning over waving at the crowd. To craft her privledged 
existence; see if she can face tragedy, and dare her to survive.

I want to reach into the violinist on the side of the street, the 
acrobat, the simple beggar, and make people understand why they're 
there. I want to see them as more than someone asking for money; to 
feel their soulful music. I want to experience it, and to share the 
joy and the tears with others.

I want the world to walk down a wet Florentine street with me, and 
coming upon the square, rounding the corner, hear the lucid music of 
the clanging bells in the Campanile and duck past the rain washed 
marble facade of the breath-taking Duomo. 

I want their hearts to hang in suspension as a loved one literally 
falls out from under them. Flying over the cold concrete stairs and 
landing with a crack on the cold concrete floor. Have their hearts 
pound as they climb into a New York ambulance, afraid for my 
grandmother's life. Spending an afternoon in a dirty hospital in a 
rather seedy section of the city, transporting to larger hospital for 
the night, the priest blessing her. The cold and lonely night and 
splashing through puddles of standing water in the dark in Central 
Park. Realising she's ok.

In my wildest dreams they would connect with my most treasured 
experiences. Sneezing as a friend dabs stage make-up thickly over my 
eyes. Taking deep breaths as I wait for my cue. Hitting each note 
with perfect tone, quality, and depth as I smile at the actors and 
actresses around me. The standing ovation, the glory, the pride.

The simple pleasures of a good book, a quiet afternoon, and a little 
music. The joys of laughing, and crying, with friends.

I could go on and on ad infinitum but I'm sure you've had quite 
enough. What I'm trying to say is that for all the ideas, 
experiences, thoughts, and joys, that I possess there are words but 
not context. There's no story, just a regular life. How can I make my 
life something worth reading about. How do I encorporate it with my 
dreams, and my *very* active imagination? That's what I hope to find 
out some day. That's why I dreamed of being a writer as a kid, and 
it's why that hope still glimmers as I grow older and find more and 
more responsibility and expectation on my shoulders.


Hmmm this seems a *really* pointless post, and I could just hit 
delete, but for some reason I'm going to post it anyway. Hope I 
didn't bore you.

Scott