I have a couple of places where I keep ideas, concepts and snippets for stories I’ve yet to write. Much of “The Well”, as I call it, are little more than images, a few lines to capture the idea before it can escape. It’s where ideas go to…well, not die, exactly. More like “stew”. Sometimes a couple of molecules of story will gravitate toward one another and clump together as a large piece of…something. I can take several molecular combinations before an idea achieves “critical mass” and becomes an actual story.
It’s fun to sift through the Well every so often. Most enjoyable, though, are rediscovering the ideas I’d forgotten were there. It sounds egotistical, but occasionally I’ll rediscover one that sends a little thrill up my spine. Those ideas clearly resonate with me, touching something fundamental, instinctive (though there’s no guarantee anyone else will find them as exciting). When enough of those liminal ideas reach critical mass I’ll really write something noteworthy. Assuming, of course, that my craft is up to the challenge.
Perhaps that is why I keep writing; I want to become worthy of the stories still waiting patiently in my head for their chance to be told.
Did you ever read Jasper Fforde’s “Well of Lost Plots”?
Yes, I’m pretty sure I got that far in the series. It’s been a long time, though.
Back in the pre-cambrian era when I was in school, we had the image of ideas as mouldering lumps of decaying matter. You stuck them into the compost heap to let them fester and decay until something sprouted out of them. It was usually best if you wore gloves while handling you mental dung heap.