I decided that as well as gathering ideas I needed to start writing bits, otherwise I’d get too daunted by the weight of material I was trying to do justice to. And I found a useful prompt at Write Anyway – to use “I can’t tell you what I might do” as a first line. Given my theme of refusing to be defined by others, this seemed an interesting place to start, so here’s a short scene taking this as a departure point.

“I can’t tell you what I might do.”

“Then we have a problem, don’t we.”

Marii tried not to fidget, mutter or otherwise show her growing irritation. Hours of surmounting challenges, many of which had definitely not been on the syllabus, had left her drained and somewhat cranky. Now she was expected to stand and be interrogated by an unknown woman. Or actually, as it appeared to her, be interrogated by a large armchair (lit from behind in the most cliched style) whose occupant was invisible. Staring at the evidently comfortable cushions just reminded her of how badly her aching muscles were coping with the strain of continued standing. And the smoothness of the voice asking these patronising questions – what was all this “we” nonsense? -  was making it hard to bear the mental strain of continued politeness.

“Look, I’m seventeen. I don’t see how I could make a promise about what I’m going to do with my abilities for the next year, let alone the rest of my life. But nobody ever told me this was going to be a problem. Is it fair to put me through all of this… the teaching, the testing… and only now spring on me this great solemn vow that I’m supposed to bind myself with.”

There was a silence. Marii wondered if she had gone too far, then crossly told herself that this was exactly what she was thinking so why shouldn’t she say so. She shifted her weight slightly to stretch the taut muscles in her left calf which was threatening to cramp.

“Well, you have passed the tests that we set you… indeed you have, as we expected, done very well. But the Council are not prepared to graduate you today. We will schedule a follow-up interview in six weeks time, and I recommend that you use the intervening time to reflect seriously on why you are so reluctant to make what is, after all, a very reasonable commitment. Society must be sure of those who wield powers like yours, and every other student who has stood where you’re standing now has been willing to give us a clear and binding commitment. If your intentions are good, then why would you refuse to do the same? Seek the advice of the healers. Look deeply and honestly into yourself, and be prepared to give a better answer when you return here. But be warned, we will not graduate someone who is so obviously in denial about her own motivations.”

That was too much. Three years, three incredibly tough years of being a brilliant student… could they really take all this away from her?

“But it’s not that I want to go and… oh, make Mount Hiayi erupt, or something mad, or evil, like that. I just don’t know what I want to do! Why do you assume…”

In her vehemence Marii took a step forward, so the light no longer dazzled her. And fell silent. If there had ever been anyone in the chair, there was noone there now. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold. And realised that behind her the door to the street had opened, and the cold air was chilling her sweat-soaked tunic. A cold dismissal of all the efforts she had made.

Where now?

I had difficulty with the name… decided to go for Maria and ended up with Marii as an interesting typo. I am also interested that I was reluctant to be explicit about the “powers” that I’m thinking about. I think I do want to write a fantasy novel, so that I can play with reality and with norms to give me the background for a story that is fundamentally psychological. But I wasn’t quite committed to that, so I didn’t make it more explicit.

… that I can’t write a novel when my starting point is a psychological concept and not much else? It’s an idea that’s powerful, has personal significance for me and probably also for others. And yes, I will need to do one hell of a lot of work to flesh it out, but the important thing is to start from somewhere!

From NeilGaiman.com:

Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins. It has no job security of any kind, and depends mostly on whether or not you can, like Scheherazade, tell the stories each night that’ll keep you alive until tomorrow. There are undoubtedly hundreds of easier, less stressful, more straightforward jobs in the world. Personally, I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do, but that’s me.

If you want to be a writer, write. You may have to get a day job to keep body and soul together (I cheated, and got a writing job, or lots of them, to feed me and pay the rent). If you aren’t going to be a writer, then go and be something else. It’s not a god-given calling. There’s nothing holy or magic about it. It’s a craft that mostly involves a lot of work, most of it spent sitting making stuff up and writing it down, and trying to make what you have made up and written down somehow better.

Like writing patchwork poetry, the challenge of using stimuli is not to stick things together randomly but to find a common core that runs through them, something that holds them together.

I love the humour and wisdom and determination in this face…

I love the power of this image…

Born in the wrong place… somewhere where she can’t be herself at all. Has to fight to get out… but in fighting becomes in some ways less herself and has to undo all this.

Openness to closedness back to openness again

Hates cats – allergic?

A gift for being in the wrong place at the wrong time

Copper – bracelets? buttons?

But most definitely not green eyes (thanks DWJ!)

Not quite sure what I want to do with this yet, but it’s a fantastic image…

http://hq.dpics.org/12__Candlelight,_Water_Flame_Fantasy.htm

What I want to write about is being yourself, the story of someone (or possibly more than one someone) fighting to be themselves in the context of pressures to be different. Stumbling from one group that promotes self-realisation to another because none of them are truly conducive to really being oneself.

A tale where the action is as much internal as external…

Also about hope, and honesty.