So, I sat back down to the new book today. I did this with a mingled sense of anticipation and fear as I haven’t written a word on it since 3pm the 8th of January 2012, and – as far as I can recall – even that was a simple read through of the 33k I’d previously written, before I packaged the whole thing into mothballs and began the pre-edit on Resonance.
That is not to say I’ve been ignoring it. All the time I was reworking Resonance, this latest story has been turning itself over and over in my head: telling itself to me whether I wanted to listen or not. And over the last few weeks, as I lay in bed at night listening to the story whisper in my mind, I realized something huge: something that means going back to the beginning. Something wearying and exciting in equal measure.
I’d got the voice wrong. I’d got it completely wrong.
It’s not for me to tell this story. It isn’t my story to tell. In fact, the longer I thought about it, the more I realized, this isn’t even a story, this is a memory. It is Alda’s memory. Her voice is so strong inside my head, her urge to be heard so loud, I need to just step the hell out of her way and let her do this for herself.
This morning – terrified – I set aside my previous fumbling efforts to walk in Alda’s shoes and I handed the narration over to her. I’m so grateful that I have. I feel as if she’s taken my hand and is leading me forward now. I feel as if, from here on in, I’m only following where she has been.
Expect a lot of silence for a while, folks, I’m off on another journey.