Paperclips, Novel Writing, and Old Composition Books (Memories)

I had a burst of desire for novel-writing tonight. I think it was inspired by Kristina McBride's visit on Friday. I did some planning work on my NaNoWriMo novel - using index cards to write big conflicts and ideas for little scenes on them. I feel so organized! And official! And productive!

I realized that when I want to write, especially novel, or finish a certain short story - nothing else matters. I wanted to write, I wanted to write that book, and even though I have about 4 tests/quizzes next week, I was able to completely forget about them. I was the novel. I was nothing but the story, the characters, the pencil in my hand, and the note cards I was writing on. That was all I consisted of.

And it felt like paradise.

Sometimes I have trouble relaxing. If I'm not satisfied in some way, or feeling out of balance, or just really stressed, I can't relax. But I was able to relax tonight, when I was in the world of A Beginning for the End (the name of my novel). And still, when I've put the note cards aside, gotten enough done, resolved to relax into the night...I still don't feel an ounce of stress. I have an English test tomorrow! Over a book! Over Night! That's important! But somehow I'm able to put that aside, and concentrate on the worlds of Clee and Fabian and Marissa and Dr's Garner and Finkle, and the little girl with the violin, Lillian...I am them.

I used paperclips to hold the note cards together. Paperclips are amazing. They're so bonding, so solid, yet flexible. You can reshape them, reform them into almost whatever you want. And still, they could hold things together.

If only we could use paperclips in every aspect of our lives.

During the Holocaust, the Norwegians wore paperclips to signify opposition to the Nazi party. And a few years ago, some middle school students in Tennessee started a project to collect 6 million paperclips in honor of the 6 million Jews whose lives were taken during the Holocaust. There was a movie made about this called Paperclips...I wouldn't be at all surprised if you've heard of it. We're watching it in English class, and it's the second time I'm seeing it. The movie is phenomenal...as is the idea.

(As a side note, particularly to CVEC: I noticed that my friend has been wearing a paperclip on her sleeve for the last few days, since we started the movie. I know this is also to honor the Jews...and, yes, I've noticed you wearing it. I didn't say anything because I felt that I didn't need to - I could experience the warmth of that paperclip on your sleeve in my heart, and didn't need to in words. I just want to let you know that I noticed. So if I may, I'd like to suggest that you add another Act of Good on your own blog - for wearing that paperclip...and for me seeing it, and the way it almost brought tears to my eyes.)

Finally, memories. I was looking through the boxes that contain the contents of my old desk (which I haven't been able to organize in my new desk since it still lacks a drawer). I have soo many composition books, or just plain old notebooks, that I can't even count them. Most only have a few pages written on...well, about a third of the pages, let's say. There's a spelling book, a book with pages devoid of lines that's for drawing (the first three drawings are of Harry, Hermione, and Ron), and there's one with the beginnings of a story I started several years ago (the main character's name was Dwight Dew). Among many others. I have several of those mini composition books, one of which I wrote "Little Book of Big Ideas" on the front of. And what's in it? Scriggly lines, over the first 5 pages at least, from when I was too young to be able to write comprehensible words made up of letters, but still wanted to write.

I get lost in these memories. It's dangerous, when I start looking at those things. I see drawings, and writings, poems, and old school assignments, folders from camps I've attended...and I start to revisit them. Every single one. I start reading, and I can't stop (which I suppose is good, because it means I'm enjoying my own writing - a rare feat in the world of authors). I get TOTALLY lost.

I only hope that I can use all of those memories sometime in my writing, or just in my life. They're worth something, they really are. Something more than satisfied Sunday nights. They're worth something recognizable, I think.