Welcome to the second #WritingWednesdays of 2017, everybody! Hope everyone’s been enjoying themselves thus far and swinging into the new year with an open mind, heart, and spirit.
Today’s except comes from Night Writer just like last week, and it’s the first part of Chapter 10. Here we have Ashton trying to write his musical—very Christian from Moulin Rouge!—under the Parisian night sky. I won’t give it away since it’s such a short excerpt, but enjoy! And I’ll see you next week!
It’s hard to write when your mind’s clouded like tonight’s sky. Taupe serves as the canvas while Gainesboro clouds bring a softness to this picturesque painting, creating a solemn and ominous vibe to the vivacity of the brightly lit capital below. Not a single star is present to shed some light to this bleak work of art. Even the moon’s visibility is nonexistent tonight. Yet the juxtaposition between the two scenes right in front and below my peripheral view is what makes moonless nights so intriguing. Everyone romanticizes Paris under a starry night, but the city seems more romantic on nights like this one. The city is just more vibrant and its lights get to radiate to their full extent without the add-on from the sky. It’s just beautiful to see Paris shine bright like a diamond under a dark, starless night.
Michael thinks that I don’t write on nights when the moon’s not out, but he’s definitely wrong. Just because my source of inspiration isn’t physically visible doesn’t mean that it’s not looming in the night sky. We have this weird concept that if something isn’t visibly noticeable, then it’s not really there. That’s basically what Michael thinks whenever la lune isn’t making her presence visibly known and that’s why he thinks I don’t write on nights like this. But that’s preposterous. That’s the same thing as saying mental illnesses aren’t real or important because the pain they inflict on their victims can’t be seen. Sometimes the most beautiful and melancholic things are invisible to the naked eye; what a shame that a lot of people don’t realize it.
I peer into the distance and tap my pen on my left knee. The night is still very young, as it’s only fifteen till midnight. I turn my attention back to the scene I’ve been editing over the past hour and groan. When I initially wrote it down, it seemed perfect. Reading through it now, I don’t feel like it’s the best way to carry on the story. My mind’s going insane just thinking about how I’ll have to completely scrap this scene and start anew. I don’t have that much time, and I know how eager Luke is for me to hand in the finished product. He’s literally handing this opportunity to me on a silver platter, but I might not be able to take advantage of it because I’m having major doubts about my writing.
For some reason, writing the songs have been a piece of cake compared to the actual script of the musical. I think it largely has to do with my brain being able to conjure melodies out of nowhere—my mind is more musical than I thought—and lyrics following suit. This typically occurs after finishing or reading through a scene. It’s like my mind picks out areas within the script that allows for a grand number to seamlessly fit. So far, it’s been doing a kickass job at song placement; composing the songs with actual instruments happens before I head to the roof to write for the night.
I stare blankly at the first page of the scene I’m about to scrap, holding it up just nanometers away from my face. I glance at the sky for a minute to drink in the somber colors displayed above and hopefully gain some inspiration to compensate for this soon-to-be fallen piece of the story. At least it’s the last scene you’ve written. You’d be screwed if it were near the beginning or middle. You’d have to literally start from scratch if that were the case!
As the City of Romance sparkles below me like a sea of glistening treasure, I grip the pages of that last scene and look down. I can see a number of cars driving by and hear the vivacity of the Parisian night life. The wind now harshly howls as its gusts increase in speed, creating the perfect source of transportation for the rectangular sheets of carbon imprisoned by my fist.
After about a minute or so, I close my eyes, breathe in the cool air, and release my grip on the papers. I immediately open my eyes and watch as the invisible jet of air carries the papers, steadily allowing them to rise before drifting away. My eyes follow their path until finally, they’re out of sight. If anyone finds them on the streets, they can do whatever they want with it. It’s not like they’re going to get much from three pages worth of dialogue; without the rest of the script, the text makes no sense at all.
With that out of the way, I turn my attention back to the rest of my script. There isn’t that much to write, Ash. You’ve basically written most of the script; you just need to fine-tune the songs and edit so everything’s ready to go. You’ve only got a few weeks left to get everything done. Stay focused and don’t let anything distract you from this night forward. Your main priority is getting this musical fully written before you go back to Sydney. Forget about Steph for now; she’s just a distraction no matter how much she’s inspired you lately. Don’t forget why you came here, Ashton. You didn’t come here for a girl; you came here to draw inspiration for your writing and to potentially get noticed. You’ve accomplished both of those tasks, and all you have to do is stay on the right track. No more talking to Steph and no more nights out. Writing, composing, and editing is all you have to do until this script is in Luke’s hands.