concepts – Michael Seidel, writer

First, I’m always doing that, no matter where I am in the writing, editing, and revising process. Ideas and characters are stacked up in my head like a giant Costco warehouse. But now it’s reached the point where I’ll transition from mind mutterings into earnest application, chasing a direction, building characters, and so on.

Now, I have one novel in the works where I wrote about a third of it and shared it with friends earlier this year. They said, “That’s great, do more of that.” But there are some ideas which have been lurking in my mind’s niches for a longer period. Some light flashed on them today.

Suddenly a concept jumps into being almost fully conceived. An opening paragraph begins getting typed in my mind. Main characters clear their throats and step up. Then, best of all, a neon-lit title leaps into the scene.

Some muse is behind it all and put together an impressive campaign to convince me to pursue their idea. And it worked.

I’m eager to start writing.

Back at home with individuals not driven to write, the conversations awaken my muses. They gather to watch people, and think about their lives and times. A common concept about pain, end of life, children dealing with Mom and each other, begins evolving.

Aspects emerge. Donuts being thrown against the side of the house one frozen December Sunday. Children running away and returning. Marriages and divorces. Many marriages and divorces. Enduring secrets. Diseases that strike and tear our family apart and bring us back together.

The first stories I remember hearing about Mom was when she was fourteen. She lived in Turin, Iowa. Small town. V-E and V-J were just a few years before. The children habitually walked the streets over to watch television through a window. The window belonged to the hardware store, which was also a cafe. It had the town’s only TV, as television was then so new. The hardware store/cafe also had the town’s only phone. If a call came in for a resident, the owner’s son ran to fetch them.

Then there is Mom’s tale about the Sunday chicken. Her mother was leaving and warned Mom and her older brother, “Don’t you get this house dirty while I’m gone.” They heard the iron in their mother’s voice and the threat it carried.

But they were siblings and started teasing each other. It escalated until Mom grabbed the roasted chicken and threw it at her brother. He ducked. The chicken slammed into the wall. They watched it slide down, fixing the wall with a greasy trail. Looking at one another, they knew Mom was going to beat them.

Yes, there’s stuff to be told, as there is in many families.

A new novel concept just stormed my mind. Problem, of course, is that I need to finish the beast I’m working on. Its progress has slowed. The rush of the first draft is like driving somewhere. Some difficulties might be encountered, but overall, it’s just adding up the miles. The real work and the associated tedium begins after that first draft, when I need to seriously address everything and ensure plot points dovetail, characters stay true, and the story is interesting and decently told.

That hard work, though challenging and satisfying, begins to bore my imagination, who feels lost and left out. So story ideas percolate. Sometimes, like this one today, they boil over.

But still, I gotta make a note of this one somewhere where it won’t get lost in the stash of other story ideas I want to pursue, and then make the time to write it.

That’s how it goes.