Plain Princess

One of the most common questions that authors get asked apparently
is where they get their ideas. I have always wondered how, once an idea
is born, it becomes a fully-fledged story. How do all the small details
and sub plots appear? Are they meticulously planned beforehand or is it
possible that they just happen out of thin air?

Stephen King says in his book, On Writing, not to bother with the plot
and to let the characters work it out for themselves. I found this
rather hard to believe until I sat down to write a 2,000 word short
story and at almost quadruple that it's still going. A friend of mine
said, when I said how much I enjoyed a chapter he had written, 'All I
wanted was a drowning Viking, and that lot appeared.'

So what happens when you sit down at your typewriter, laptop, pencil
and paper or however you write?

I thought I would investigate this phenomenon. But how?

I knew that the only thing I could remember after I'd finished a story
was typing, and suspected that it would be the same with other writers
so interviews would be no good.

I decided to place a video camera in the room where I write and to
record everything that happened while I was writing.

I'd had an idea for a short story for children, you know, the usual
thing; princes, princesses, evil wizards and monsters, so I thought I'd
try out the experiment while writing that.

I've written what happened from the third person perspective, because
it makes more sense that way, as I have written the account of what I
saw on the tape, rather than what I remember happening while I was
writing. Actually that was Thripp's idea. You will meet him
shortly.

To be honest, I was expecting a video of me writing, but that wasn't
what I got.

Not even close.

* * *

The writer wandered into his room and sat down in the chair under the
mirror. He placed his laptop on the TV table next to the chair, leant
over, plugged the power supply in and waited for it to power up.

Once it was running, he started up the word processor and began
typing.

Once upon a time he typed.

'Once a-poly ti-to,' echoed a voice round the room in a Stanley Unwin
kind of way.

The writer appeared not to hear it, but sat back in his chair and
muttered 'Music.' He got up and left the room.

Shortly after the sound of the Small Faces could be heard coming from
another room. The writer wandered back in and looked up at some small
speakers mounted on the wall.

'One of these days,' he said to no one in particular. 'One of these
days I'll wire these speakers in, then the neighbours won't have to
suffer.'

He sat down again and looked at the computer screen. A small stick
figure stepped out of it. I looked like one of the drawings that
primary school children do and label 'Daddy.'

'Once upon a time?' said the figure with more than a touch of sarcasm
in his voice. 'What sort of a start is that?'

The writer didn't look shocked at the appearance of this figure and
began to talk back.

'It's just a start, I'll probably change it later.'

'Well, make sure you do. Hans Christian Anderson might have got away
with 'Once upon a time,' but today's kids read Goosebumps and Harry
Potter. 'Once upon a time' is not gonna hold their attention is
it?'

'Well no,' said the writer. 'Anyway, wait a minute, who are you?'

The stick man raised his eyes heavenwards.

'I'm Thripp,' he said, 'your hero.'

'Oh right. But you're so thin. Not how I imagined you at all.'

'That's because you've still got to flesh me out in the story. Duh!'
Thripp smacked himself on the forehead.

The writer watched as Thripp leaped onto the keyboard and began to jump
on the backspace key. In no time at all 'Once upon a time' had become
'Once up' and then disappeared altogether.

'That's better,' said Thripp. 'Now start again properly. I am not going
to be in a story that starts with 'Once upon a time' and that's the end
of it.'

Thripp stepped back into the laptop screen and disappeared.

The writer began to type.

She was the most beautiful princess in the kingdom.

There was a groan. 'How many kingdoms?' said a voice.

'One,' said the writer.

'And princesses?'

'Just the one,' answered the writer again.

'So,' said Thripp, poking his head out of the screen. 'She could be
really ugly, and still be the most beautiful princess in the
kingdom?'

'Technically, I s'pose.'

'I'm not ugly,' wailed another voice. A different figure stepped out of
the screen. This figure was wearing a log dress, had long flowing hair
and a tiara.

'Depends on what he writes,' said Thripp. 'Go on, give her warts an
boils.'

The Princess began to cry and Thripp fell over giggling. He lay on the
keyboard kicking his legs in the air.

'I'm not going to give you warts and boils,' said the writer. 'And
Thripp you're not the kind of hero I had in mind.'

'You'll figure it out,' said Thripp and disappeared again.

'You won't make me ugly will you?' said the Princess.

'No, now please can I get on and start the story'.

'And look at this dress,' the Princess continued. 'It's made of wood, I
can hardly move.'

'I haven't written anything about your dress,' said the writer looking
confused. 'It must be a typo somewhere.'

'Well make sure you do. And quickly. Its very uncomfortable.'

The Princess disappeared and the writer began to type.

The princess looked into the mirror. She wasn't particularly beautiful
in the classical sense of fairytale princesses, but you could never
call her ugly. Her hair was golden, her eyes bright blue and her lips
full. If there was one thing that stood out, it was her nose.

She had inherited her father's nose, long and pointy, but not long
enough to detract from the rest of her features.

Her name was Daisy, named from the flowers that carpeted the lawns of
the castle courtyard.

'Princess Daisy?' shouted a shrill voice.

'Well it's better than Thripp. What kind of a name is that?' shouted
another.

'Your majesty,' said a voice behind her.

The Princess turned, her silk dress sweeping across the floor, to see
Thripp, the court jester standing in the doorway.

'Your father wishes your presence in the state room.'

'A jester?! A jester?!' said Thripp, stepping out of the screen again.
He wasn't quite so thin as he was earlier. A hat with bells on was
propped on his head. He grabbed it and threw it on the keyboard.

'You never said I was a jester,' he continued. 'When you decided I was
the hero, I thought that I was going to be a dashing prince, or a noble
knight, not the King's fool!'

The writer picked up the hat and put it back on Thripp's head.

'Come on,' he said. 'There is no way you could be a prince or a knight,
you're too witty. Besides everybody loves an underdog, you know
that.'

'Will I defeat the monsters and all the other bad guys?' Thripp
asked.

'Yes.'

'And free the princess?'

'Yes.'

'I don't have to marry ol' big nose do I?'

'Wait and see.'

'I'm afraid of the dark.'

'So?'

'Just thought I'd let you know, in case the monsters are in caves. Oh
and I don't like heights either.'

Thripp disappeared back into the screen. The writer began typing
again.

The state room was magnificently decorated. The paintings around the
wall and ceiling rivalled anything Michelangelo could have painted. One
end of the room had two large thrones each one decorated in gold and
gems.

Two more stick people stepped out of the screen. Each had a little
crown on its head.

'Nice to meet you,' said one of them.

The writer assumed that it was the King, as he had a beard.

'Erm?' began the writer. 'This is a little embarrassing. I was just
about to write the following.'

On the larger of the two thrones sat the King. He looked sadly at the
empty throne and remembered the happy days he and the Queen had spent
before that dark winter night she had been taken from him.

'Oh,' said the King sadly. He looked down at the other, now prone,
stick figure.

'I never said she was dead,' said the writer. 'Just that she was taken
from you.'

Suddenly a clawed hand shot out of the laptop screen, grabbed the
'stick Queen' and disappeared.

At that moment the phone rang. The writer answered it.

'Oh, hello Mum.' He listened for a while and looked at his watch. In
the meantime, the stick figures had disappeared.

'Okay, about quarter of an hour then.' The writer hung up, pressed a
few keys on the laptop and then walked towards the camera.

The screen went blank.

No doubt it wasn't what you expected either?

THE END