The other night I went to see Midnight in Paris. Brilliant movie. Leaving the cinema I was inspired and just wanted to get home to write the best novel ever written, the wisest words, the truest story. The Story the world had been waiting for since the beginning of time.
The journey home in the car seemed unending. Words were forming in my head, the sound, the order, the characters who would utter them. They were characters I was already familiar with from previous drafts. But now I knew exactly the words they wanted to say and the setting in which they would say them. I knew how I would describe them, the way they would look at each other, how they would touch each other both physically and emotionally. Everything was there in my head.
And then I was home, sitting at my little table, paper and pen ready for the moment of truth. I looked at my characters on the page. They were glorious. I placed them in the magnificent room that I had been preparing for months. The curtains were drawn, the candles flickered, casting shadows. My characters sat across the table from each other. It was all so perfect.
And suddenly they had nothing to say to each other.