Today, I took a day off. My intention was to do nothing. A brilliantly busy August, in a field in the middle of Cornwall kind of took up my Summer. it was fabulous, but left little time for doing nothing. Something my husband will testify, I’m particularly good at.
After packing the kids off, him in doors and I went for breakfast, just the two of us… a delicious novelty I might add, and since then I’ve been sat on the beach. watching the tides, the kite fliers, the kids building sandcastles, the couples walking, the town getting busier as the day progresses and the gulls eyeing up their prey before swooping in to steal a pasty from an unsuspecting tourist.
But as well as that, I’ve been thinking. Now that really wasn’t in my plan!
A few weeks ago, a little boy metaphorically said hello to me. This little man, with flame red hair and a gentle soul has been busying himself in my head ever since. I like him. He isn’t demanding, he isn’t boisterous, he is just a gentle gentle soul. A perfect bed time character. A boy who makes you feel warm inside, someone for who dreaming is a way of life. And herein lies my problem for the day. All advice about writing centers around the conflict. Conflict has to be at the centre of the story for your story to have pace, point and meaning. But this little boy isn’t really one for conflict. he is one for thought. perhaps this in itself is a conflict to pursue…. cue a selection of picture books no-body would want to read.
I don’t think I need to take the ‘Conflict’ thing too literally, I think it’s open to interpretation, but if a little man, this little man, is to have any life at all, I need to find a way to give him a conflict that doesn’t contradict his point of being. I shall sit on this beach, looking out to see and think about this some more…