I browsed the annals of my mind for tales of dark fantasy that I could share this October and I became stumped on a story that was in my mind, yet to which I couldn’t place a name.
The world is shrouded in infinite dark.
A young boy, his hair brighter than any color, questions what lies beyond the darkness, beyond the further.
He spends his time drawing pictures of what might be, imagining colors that he has never seen, and wondering what it would be like to kiss a girl. So he sketched her – hair of cinnamon that curled around her body, eyes of fresh green, and a white scarf with tattered edges that bundled around her neck.
Then, a knock at the door.
And the girl who was once only in pictures, stands in the doorway like a ghost with a smile, prepared to take the young boy to the places he has never been.
It took me a solid five minutes to realize that I was describing a book that I have not yet written.
It felt surreal, as if caught between what is and would might be, endlessly looping within the creatives of my mind; where, I gained clarity of it.
The story was lost in perdition, the writer’s waiting room of hell. It was one that had started and stopped and gone back ’round again only to be halted once more. Not much progress was being made, only bits of character and setting that I stored in the note section of my pencil, still unwritten.
Yet now I am buoyed by a stroke of confidence that was missing. There is little rationale to it, few, if any, reasons I could give you for why I am now prepared to flesh out a story that has little more than a summary attached to it.
But it is those little moments, as fleeting as motes of dust in the dying light of day, that inspire us to take that unseen step into a greater unknown.
All it takes is for the pencil to touch the page.