I have a novel in my mind. It's almost perfect, fully formed except for the tiniest details. I don't concern myself about the details, as they seem to fly from me as I write. Perhaps they already exist, somewhere deep in my subconscious, waiting for the right moment to burst into being. They are the furled flowers of my imagination.
The only thing this novel lacks is a Beginning. In the past two months, I've written countless scenarios in my mind, and on paper, yet none of them seem to work. I have felt like Prince Charming, trying to fit the Glass Slipper onto endless feet, desperate to find that perfect fit.
I write by hand, in black ink, on lined paper. It's old fashioned, and it suits me very well. My handwriting is very bad, and in some ways it's like a top-secret code that only I can decipher. I've written pages and pages of Beginnings, scribbled in tiny cursive characters, crossed out, redone, notated and finally shredded. I don't consider any of it wasted effort. For me, it's like cutting and polishing a priceless gem. Such things take time, and effort.
In my mind, my characters have become quiet. Usually, they are a rowdy bunch, demanding that I write about them, or develop their individual stories. Now they are silent, because in the Beginning they they were not there. There was only one person, and the endless reaches of the sky.
Perhaps that's true for every Beginning.