Migrating cranes at Point Mallard, Alabama.
A few days back I was busy on my back porch working on a novel that I’ve been “working” on for years! I had gotten to a particular scene that was set, as it were, in my mind. My female protagonist climbs into an attic. She’s looking for a computer. She doesn’t want to go into the attic. She remembers the attic from years back as a musty, dark, nasty place. She pulls down the attic ladder and climbs up. When she pokes her head into the attic space, she gasps.
Now at this point, I had it in mind to show the attic as indeed a nasty dirty spider web infested space, but when she flips the light switch, the attic is quite different. It is a well-furnished room, small but clean with bright walls, a small bed and nightstand on one side and a painted chest of drawers and mirror on the other.
This neatly apportioned room inserted itself into my mind. It simply happened. I had not “planned” to write it as such. And even more interesting is that the change–from a dreary attic full of scratchy insulation and haphazard wiring to a neatly painted furnished room–works better for the overall narrative. In short, for the moment, the story wrote itself. It brought to mind lines from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam–
And strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more Impatient cried–
“Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?”
And so I ask, have you had this experience while writing? The ascendance of the Imaginative Power over your conscious endeavor?