Harness Your Imagination During its Free Time
John Ogden reflects on story ideas.
If a good idea for a story presents itself in the twilight zone between sleep and full wakefulness—get it written down if you can, before it can disappear off into the ether.
Story ideas can come from anywhere. At any time. Often at inconvenient moments; checkout queues, just before the oven timer starts to beep, within thirty seconds of getting into the hot shower. But it’s when waking up; resurfacing from the disorientating swell of a slumber that a tantalising inspiration can take hold in your mind—like the dazzling shape of a lightbulb when you close your eyes against its glare. But just like that vivid after-image on your retinas, it quickly fades.
Maybe it was a situation of which you dreamt, an astonishing place, an intriguing character, or just a notion? It made you laugh, be awed, or perhaps gasp in terror, wanting to claw your way free of the nightmare. But it was good.
It affected you.
You stare up into the darkness. You’re awake. Just about.
Roll over to look at the clock.
3:12 am
Maybe you should write the idea down? It could be part of a story.
You have a notebook there just past the lamp, but the pencil is on the shelf at the other side of the room. You think so at least. Anyway—it’s leagues away.
And then you think of the notes app on your phone, which is resting on your books, somewhere.
Look back up at the ceiling. Close your eyes.
You’ll remember to write it down in the morning.
You know you won’t.
You have been here before.
Rarely you can recall these delicate, fleeting ideas in the hustling light of dawn.
But if you put the light on and start writing things down now, you may never get off to sleep again. And you have a big day ahead.
Feeble roll onto the cold side of the pillow.
3:17 am
It’s already 3.17! You’ve now lost five minutes. And you got to bed late too, didn’t you?
It all adds up.
Do it in the morning.
You try to re-run the vision you had, or the words that came to you over and over again, but your mind is becoming greased with sleep and they won’t stick. They slosh over its rim as you begin the slow, sinking spiral, back down into unconsciousness.
You have been here before.
Force your eyes open.
You should get the pencil. Or your phone.
But you are at base camp, and they are at the distant summit of the shelf. And your t-shirt won't save you from the cold outside the covers.
Do it in the morning.
It’ll be warmer.
But you know you most likely won’t remember the words or visions that prodded you awake into this little sliver of consciousness.
Yet... If you brave the rolling and clumsy clamber from the warm embrace of the sheets, reach out for the pencil or phone and fumble the light on… If you’re quicker than the cold… If you do it, before it all evaporates…
And next morning—if you have time to remember to look at what you jotted down—it may make no sense. You could squint at why the hell you thought such nonsense was worth the effort.
But it is a risk worth taking.
Every now and again, you may flick through the pages of that notebook, or absent-mindedly scroll through the notes on your phone and the little seed you bothered to tuck away could spike out a fresh, green stem into your imagination. The tip of an idea for a story to germinate from.
And who knows what the words you saved—planted anew in your mind—may sprout into, in yet more of your dreams?
Just keep the pencil or phone within reach.
It all adds up.