For the last month I've been thinking, in increasingly less vague terms, about a new novel. I've been scratching about at the edges of an idea, teasing out a few strands of the story, mulling over different characters, but nothing has taken flight so far: the wings of my imagination have stayed tightly furled - there have been no thermals to coast, no up draughts or down draughts or any other kind of draft. Nieda.
Until today. I've been rather stumped about what I should call my characters, but today I made myself decide. I've been wading through lists of girls' and boys' names, trying them out, conjuring, feeling them on my tongue and now everyone who features in my narrative has a name.
The effect has been extraordinary. Within the space of a (cold, wet) afternoon I have the skeleton of a pitch sketched out. It is as if making one decision, the first, critical choice about what a character should be called, has facilitated the making of dozens of others.
The lesson here? Naming your characters is the start of a long commitment. Like the christening of a baby, promises are made and pledges given. Giving someone a name is the first step towards them having an identity; it makes them real. Unnamed, it's difficult to relate to them -- no wonder my story wasn't gelling. All that remains for me now is to have a little drink to wet the baby's head -- oh, and to write the book, of course.
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