You know them, these sentences, the ones that come to you in the last moments before sleep, verbs foremost, nouns lifted before you and by adjectives described (adverbs be damned), begging you for “more, please.” But there is no more.
Most are gone by morning, swept up in or swept away by your dreams or nightmares. A few survive the night, perhaps because they made you laugh or cry. But here they are again, shining in the morning sun, rosy cheeked and tearful, imploring you to write a story to parent them.
Until you write that story, if you ever do, you must keep them safe, in a folder or a computer file, something that you look at from time to time, hoping that the right story will come along. My file is labeled Boswell’s Book of Orphan Sentences: Words in Search of a Story, and the latest entry is:
“He had thought their stars were crossed, but as is so often the case in matters of the heart, their stars were merely dotted.”
Hmm. That one may have a long stay at the orphanage.