First came the protagonist – with her brown eyes, thick bangs, and winsome spirit.
She was closely followed by a series of bright scenes filled with the sharp sounds of school; children playing, books banging down, doors slamming, feet running.
Chinese was everywhere; so was English.
This character had big feelings, just ones she couldn’t articulate.
So how would I tell her Story for her when she couldn’t even tell it to me?
When all I could see was the look in her eyes? All I could feel was the longings of her heart?
How would I find out what the Story even was?
That’s when I began to sit. Let the characters reveal themselves to me one-by-one. See the scenes begin to flash before my eyes.
Let them gather speed . . . .
Until suddenly, a story began to emerge. That didn’t say what she felt at all, but somehow expressed it anyway.
With a central theme that was never spoken; yet preached louder than words.
The making of a Story is a lot like rolling a snowball towards a hill. Sticky wet work at first, followed by some hard, full-out pushing and the eventual full-scale roll down the hill towards greatness.