On the third finger of my right hand, I have a writer’s bump. Not just any bump either—one fully worthy of a criminal characteristic to budding detectives; my whole finger is slightly thicker than its fellow on my left hand.
The common pencil and I got on fine when I first started writing (or learning how to). I even developed a faultless cursive hand with it that mirrored the Calvert penmanship handbook and was my mother’s pride and joy. We got on fine in our limited dealings with each other in the classroom. However, when I ventured into the dangerous world of creative writing as a hobby, my relationship with the pencil came under pressure—literally. Since I held it in my own preferred way—tucked firmly in a knot of thumb, pointer, and third finger—my third finger suffered the torments of Atlas under the weight of a hard wooden pencil. As my writing bump grew, my beautiful cursive deteriorated into a spidery, nondescript hybrid with prosaic print. I regret the sacrifice scribbling cost me whenever I have to sign my name besides gorgeous cursive signatures on cards. I tried pen, but discovered that I needed the vanishing magic of lead and eraser. Ugly patches of correction fluid damaged my morale! The discovery of mechanical pencils rescued me from having to choose between elephantiasis of the third finger or giving up writing forever. Since then I have went through a dynasty of Pilot Rexgrip mechanical pencils, 0.5 lead size, in assorted colours, and always have at least two in the bucket of stationery on my desk.
Besides a dependence on mechanical pencils, I’ve developed several writing habits—perhaps not quite as bizarre as Schiller’s ice water for his toes and rotten apples for his nose, but equally essential. Some of these habits are naturally acquired, like an inability to listen to music with lyrics or participate in a conversation while writing. (I discovered this when I tried chatting with my sister and writing New Year cards, simultaneously. We had been discussing Christmas; I nearly sent off a card addressed “To: The Grinch”).
Others are learnt. But—like the glasses from the optometrist’s strange but helpful hands, which rapidly become so much your second skin you can’t imagine life without that familiar box around your field of vision—they become second nature.
For one, I keep an Idea Book. Idea Books must be capacious, practical, plain notebooks—plain enough for you to have no qualms on scribbling recklessly—suitable for holding a hodge-podge of ideas. I keep story ideas, possible titles, names for future characters, plots with each scene to be ticked off as written, phrases I salvaged from discarded stories, favourite quotes, funny anecdotes (my small cousin: “Why do you want to play the violin? It sounds horrible”), character family trees, witticism from those rare moments when you feel like a genius, childhood memories, sights and events which made an impression on me. Basically, anything that inspires me, catches my fancy, or simply stimulates my imagination, goes in. An Idea Book, in short, is a catch-all extension of a brain. It’s a more efficient and reliable memory retainer. It’s an invaluable way of storing and preserving ideas; especially dreams, the most vivid, and forgotten the fastest.
I first read of dream-keeping in Kathryn Lindskoog’s great book, Creative Writing for People Who Can’t Not Write (the discovery of which was the first time I read of established writers writing about writing, and made me feel like I’d gone from audience seats to backstage). I like to read my dream record. It makes me feel I’ve done more things than I ever thought possible. I’ve done all the wild, fantastic, dangerous, and impossible things I could ever want (or not want) to do. For instance, I’ve been chloroformed and stuffed into a guitar case, something which would have been impossible in real life. I’ve been Sherlock Holmes—the dumbest Sherlock Holmes ever, too; Watson told me so frankly. I’ve met C. S. Lewis; that was one of my favorite dreams. I’ve been everything from Amphitrite to Lizzy Bennet to a dragon. (Amphitrite, by the way, did not agree with me; I woke up the next morning with a crick in the neck). I’ve met countless serial killers and insane professors, though I still don’t know what to do if I really meet one. Recording these dreams down hasn’t just been amusing. So many times I’ve gotten a story from just one scene or idea from a dream. To qualify: the thing about dreams is they are usually a compound of 10% sense and 90% nonsense. If you insist on recording the 90% you get so disgusted you chuck the whole 100% away. The trick is to keep just the 10% of sense. Sometimes you get really good ideas, too; if you bother to sift them out and write them down.
Idea Books are one of my more amusing habits. Brushing eraser rubbings on the floor is another, which whichever sibling on floor duty does not find amusing (I make a lot of eraser rubbings). I now store my eraser rubbings in a glass bottle—I have a palm-height amount by now—to prove my innocence whenever accused. Which brings us to the topic of workspace—very important for people who can’t write while in transit or in waiting rooms. I love my desk. It must be my favourite place in the world—which is good, considering I spend about a third of my life there. It is almost always neat (comparatively, always) with ¾ of it empty for scribbling. It sits snugly in its own little niche, lessening the chances of me growling at people who look over my shoulder. (I am pretty anti-social when I get down to scribbling; the only time I tolerated any company was to let my five-year-old neighbour sit on the desk and tear off each sheet of foolscap as I completed it. Otherwise, I growl—and fiercely.) Post-its with Bible verses, to-do lists, good quotes, and random cards decorate the wall lavishly. A bookshelf with all my books—reading books, textbooks, self-written books—lives immediately next door. I have my eraser, extra lead, beautifully blank foolscap, and quiet siblings in the background absorbed in their own work (but conveniently able to supply a word or break for a chat when needed).
I don’t have Schiller’s ice water or rotten apples, but I have everything I need.
I’m happy.
Let the scribbling begin!