I’m sitting at a small table in The Backstory Cafe this morning. I have a stack of notecards to my left, a perfectly brewed mocha to my right, and my laptop squarely in the center. My computer screen should read, “Chapter Two,” but I’ve been sitting here for an hour already and the page remains blank.
I close my eyes and hope for a sign that will tell me what to type. I have an outline, notes about this chapter’s story, and desert landscape pictures for inspiration. But my page is still blank.
The exact same set-up in my own home office usually provides the perfect preparation for success, but after two days of blinking at a blank screen, I packed up my gear. I thought a trip to The Backstory Cafe would give me the push I needed to finally start typing away at this chapter.
But I’m scared.
What if all the planning I’ve done doesn’t hold the story together? What if the research I’ve done wasn’t thorough enough to create a “real” world? What if the characters I’ve created don’t sparkle on the page?
No, wait. The characters would never let me down.
I look around the crowded cafe and lock eyes with Jonni, manager of this fictional little coffee shop/blog and master of the gleaming silver espresso machine near her on the counter. She gives me a thumbs up and a smile full of teeth. I smile back, feeling guilty about my blank computer screen. She’s been so excited to be part of this novel project, her first big role.
I look away from Jonni and my eyes rest on the table nearest her. Cage, the handsomely rugged cowboy of the story and the man I plan as Jonni’s true love, sits alone fidgeting with the napkin dispenser. He looks up at me and shrugs, knowing he doesn’t even enter the story until chapter four. He looks patient, but I can’t keep him waiting forever. If I don’t get him something to do soon he’ll get bored, wander off maybe.
I catch movement across the room. It’s Brinna Tennfjord, the main character. She’d been sitting down when I first came in, watching me through her side-vision, pretending not to see me, but now she’s out of her chair and pacing the floor. She glances my way, then back to the wall quickly. I know she doesn’t want to pressure me, that isn’t her nature, but I’m making her nervous. She’s got a story to tell, a long complicated tale. It’s almost bursting from her lips, but it’s up to me to type those words.
Tell the story, I say to myself. Forget about the writing and just tell her story. You can always rewrite it later, right? Right. I flex my fingers and turn back to my laptop. They are waiting, all of them. How can I just sit here?
I take a deep breath and words begin to fill my page.