How I write stories

Or how they live in me.

Photo by Brandi Redd on Unsplash

In this amazing story, Nadia, the protagonist, puts her hands into her pockets, and strange things keep appearing: a piece of fudge, a tube of red lipstick, a pin, a map of Syria, and a gun. The stories in my head are like that. Random, unconnected, weird. They pick the most bizarre time to be birthed in my brain and have enough weight to demand attention.

Two days ago, I was reading a short story about a woman getting ready to drive to her father’s funeral. Her partner was sleeping, unaware that her dad was dead. My brain, while processing the story that I was reading, was creating threads for a story of its own. What if her partner wakes up and tries to have sex with the woman before she has a chance to explain? Men are pigs, and it would not be unthinkable for this to happen. Now, what if the woman refuses but doesn’t explain why, and the man doesn’t stop? What if there is a half-eaten plate of noodles on their bedside table? And a fork sits on it.

Some weeks ago, I was writing an essay about grief and my grandfather and also spinning a tale of a couple who divorced in my head. At the same time, the grandfather of the husband dies, and the husband, having no place to live anymore, moves to his ancestral property. The property is empty. Well, not empty. See, there is a crow that lives there. And in his extreme grief, the husband sees his grandfather in that crow.

Most stories are lost in my head. There was one about talking buildings, but every time I rethink it, it seems absurd. Or the one about a man and his wet toothbrush. Not all stories are meant to be told.

The urgent ones come back to me. The blood on the fork and the heap of dried tomato sauce on the plate of noodles are both red. But they are both such a different type of red. The way it fills the air around it, the way it sits on the plate - so different. I am on the internet trying to find words for this difference. And then I wait for the next 4 am.

Let’s say it’s 4 am. Or midnight. Or any Godforsaken hour I have chosen to dump my thoughts into paper (or the blank screen?). I started to write about the woman whose dad had died. A couple of sentences in, I start craving coffee and go on to prepare a cup. As the coffee brews, I let the story brew in my head. What should she wear? A night suit? What time did she receive the news about her dad’s death? 4 am seems perfect. How did her dad die? Do I want to foreshadow the upcoming death with a murder or just let his heart give way?

The coffee is ready. Perhaps I am ready to write the story, too. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t edit the story while writing the first draft. But two paragraphs in, I can’t help it. I see grammar errors, tense errors, and spelling errors everywhere. I make the mistake of reading the story. It seems weak. My impostor syndrome rears its head. Not good enough! I re-read the two paragraphs again. How did an idea which was so powerful in my head flip into a paper so feeble? My impostor syndrome has taken control of my thoughts, and soon enough, I have deleted the two paragraphs and closed the Word document.

A blank paper is the graveyard of so many of my stories.

The coffee has grown cold. I walk into the kitchen to reheat it. As the kettle hisses, I suddenly remember the story about the man and his toothbrush. The man had lost his daughter to a rare form of cancer. It had been six months since her death. For the last month, as he went to brush his teeth in the morning, he found his toothbrush was wet. This kept happening for a few days. As he was sure that his wife was behind it, and he did not want to bother her in her state of grief, he decided to let it go. But after it happened for nearly a month, he confronted his wife. They have a big fight. After their tempers had calmed down the next day, they tried to find a way to logically solve this dilemma. Who wets the toothbrush? After much discussion, they found an old baby video monitor of their daughter, which they used to monitor the activities of their daughter when she slept in her crib. The culprit was captured red-handed the next day. It was… Who was it? I need to write the story to find out. So I rush from the kitchen to my study. The sun has already crept up from its cosy spot on the horizon.

Maybe this story will shine on paper.

Or it will die an untimely death.