Jamie looked at the blank screen. He couldn’t get a sentence going; not even the first word. Time was getting on, but still nothing came to mind. He had a deadline to meet. What was he going to do?

The screen stayed blank as Jamie postulated his perceived possibilities.

‘If I go Option A then that will lead me into a conflict that has so much backstory that the resolution will be impossible to effectively tie up, with acceptable conclusions in the given time. Option B is the opposite, the story is so weird that its thinness will take forever to expand to anything substantial enough to terminate in a proper manner. I have to go for Option C then.’

Option C also had its own problems. The sub-stories were many, quite dissociated and time diverse. They took an infinity to crash down into simple parts rather than taking over the main trend. The benefits were that the steps towards a decent plot could be taken one at a time and when the sub-plots were reasonably established the links could be shown; carefully.

So Option C it was and carefully time progressed and sub-stories were produced and a lot of them discarded.

‘What am I at? I’m filling in the structure before it is properly in my head. Bugger. Back to page one.’

Page one was still the blank screen in front of him. It was appearing to be quite familiar.

Jamie looked up and through the study window he saw the snow descending and covering the landscape in front.

‘Cool. It started with a flake and gathered into a driving fall that covered the green grass and after a while it stopped. Its chapter is finished. Now folk can walk on it. They can slide. They can make snowmen, with coal for eyes and carrots for a nose. People can sledge and crash into each other. The children throw snowballs at each other. Skiers descend from the hills and finish up drinking glut wine by the bar. From nothing we have multiple chapters all interlinked and cross transferrable.

‘The ending? What else? The next morning the sun comes up and the snow all melts away and people go back to their lives in their normal way. The glut wine gets put away for next year.

‘So I have it then? What I need is not the words or perceived detail, but the over play. I need to stick to the higher sense and stay there. But I need a word.’

Black characters fed from the keyboard onto the screen. The word was Vision.



Author: Lindsay Craik

Writer & Poet Poetry, plays and short stories

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