I experience this nearly every day. Words, sentences, and scenes more often than not come out of nowhere. Stepping into not knowing is where the thrill is. But I would say hope is a lot like courage and faith: I don't feel hopeful or brave, it isn't really a conscious thing, but it does take some mustering, (love that word), to go into what I don't want to face. For me, as I'm embarking on the fourth re-write of a novel, the hope is in knowing I'm not required to do this by myself. Time, the muse, trusted editors, fellow writers, and the story itself that has faithfully stood with me for six years; all of the above plus my own crazy desire, support the work and give me hope that I/we will see this through, despite doubt, failings, and insecurities encountered along the way.
A few years ago, I wrote a scene which replicated, in part, a rather distressing episode in my life. I was driving on one of those busy and dirty boulevards that sprout endlessly in Montreal, and the sadness caused by my impending divorce was so overwhelming that I had to take an exit and stop the car. In the scene I wrote, I exaggerated the whole thing, and my character hung on to the railing, willing himself to jump off the highway bridge. The situation was an exaggeration, but the sentiment was there. What made it easy to write was the appearance of another character, a savior of some sort. That too, of course, was an exaggeration, or at least pure invention, because in real life no such person ever materialized. But this character, embodying hope, made the writing cathartic. On the other hand, I was terribly unsure as to how I could pull off a suicide attempt convincingly. You often fantasize about jumping, but doing it is quite another thing. Putting yourself in the shoes of a true suicidal person is both scary and terribly exciting for some reason. Probably because you don't have to do it. You just imagine what it's like.
I experience this nearly every day. Words, sentences, and scenes more often than not come out of nowhere. Stepping into not knowing is where the thrill is. But I would say hope is a lot like courage and faith: I don't feel hopeful or brave, it isn't really a conscious thing, but it does take some mustering, (love that word), to go into what I don't want to face. For me, as I'm embarking on the fourth re-write of a novel, the hope is in knowing I'm not required to do this by myself. Time, the muse, trusted editors, fellow writers, and the story itself that has faithfully stood with me for six years; all of the above plus my own crazy desire, support the work and give me hope that I/we will see this through, despite doubt, failings, and insecurities encountered along the way.
A few years ago, I wrote a scene which replicated, in part, a rather distressing episode in my life. I was driving on one of those busy and dirty boulevards that sprout endlessly in Montreal, and the sadness caused by my impending divorce was so overwhelming that I had to take an exit and stop the car. In the scene I wrote, I exaggerated the whole thing, and my character hung on to the railing, willing himself to jump off the highway bridge. The situation was an exaggeration, but the sentiment was there. What made it easy to write was the appearance of another character, a savior of some sort. That too, of course, was an exaggeration, or at least pure invention, because in real life no such person ever materialized. But this character, embodying hope, made the writing cathartic. On the other hand, I was terribly unsure as to how I could pull off a suicide attempt convincingly. You often fantasize about jumping, but doing it is quite another thing. Putting yourself in the shoes of a true suicidal person is both scary and terribly exciting for some reason. Probably because you don't have to do it. You just imagine what it's like.