So. I have this new shiny idea, okay? The kind of shiny idea that inspires feelings of hope and nostalgia at once—the sense that perhaps this could be the one that actually rises above the others and is at least slightly resembling something publishable, mixed with the annoying sense of haven't I written this before? Regardless, though, it's shiny. It involves forests with black trees, high-walled cities, trolls and goblins and faeries, blue fires in distant towers, and family turmoil run amok in a very massive way. Also, betrayal. And love. And sadness. And gore. But mostly betrayal and love.
I can picture the settings, but only in brief glimpses—the sort of glimpse you might catch if you came across the shattered pieces of a mirror lying on the floor, and could see the world around you only through those fractured shards. Enough to see white stone and black trees, a grey sky marbled by bluish-tinged clouds, a very lonely girl who is unhappy about her mother's remarriage, and a boy who is terribly afraid he's a changeling—but not enough to really grasp any sort of plot. I can see flashes of waistcoats and walking-sticks that pull apart to reveal dual blades, and red hawks, and goblin princesses who cut off human girls' hair to weave it into tapestries, and a girl running through a deserted forest as though the forces of hell are after her—but no plot. They're disjointed scenes, almost as though from a half-remembered dream, that can be connected only by the character present, but not through any particular sort of story. Except, of course, the stories of the people themselves.
It's incredibly frustrating. I think that these people must be very interesting, because boring characters wouldn't spend their afternoons running barefoot through a black forest or hiding weapons in sticks, but I don't know them. Usually, if I think about it long enough, I can come up with some half-baked sense of my characters, and go from there—but I don't know with this one. It is so very, very shiny and so totally mysterious all at once.
Being a writer is a very strange thing, especially if you're a writer for no other reason than because you feel compelled to be one. How odd.