“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; Show me the glint of light on the broken glass” – Chekhov
I write as Amy J Steinberg, and I am very proud of the fact that I am currently working on my first novel. To say that blood, sweat and tears has gone into the eventual pages of this book just about covers what every writer feels about their work. There are days when I cannot write, when the creative process is blocked out of my brain by a million and one ordinary things that will not go away, and then the page on the screen stays a stubborn, blank white. There are other days when I am so overwhelmed by creativity that the words tumble from my head onto the blank screen, filling it quickly with the ideas and scenarios as fast as my fingers can type them.
Why do I write? Why do I breathe? Why do I live? Because without writing, I think I would die. I feel the same way about this fundamental action as Isaac Asimov. It is simply something I want to do. I also think, and I hope that my eventual readers will think, that I am good at it. My words are my thoughts filtered onto a page by an imagination without restraint. Writing can take me to places I wouldn’t otherwise visit; writing can give me holidays I wouldn’t take; Lovers I would never meet; Friends I would never make and stories that would remain untold within a brain dried up of feeling.
So what is my first novel about? ‘The Fingers Of God’ is a love story, and a true life experience told within the laws and rules of quantum physics and lived under the vast expanse of a Universe littered with countless stars. The idea for the formula of the novel came one Saturday night when I was having a conversation with a friend about quantum physics (as you do). I expect that the blinding flash of inspiration I got when the friend mentioned one particular rule of thermodynamics was similar to a scientists ‘Eureka’ moment. I listened to his words, and all of a sudden, the novel was there – taking shape in my head, the story desperately waiting to be told, crying out to be transferred onto paper. I remember cutting the discussion short because I couldn’t bear not to start writing, not to start shaping the characters, the plot, the eventual conclusion.
Sadly, that was the last conversation I ever had with that friend, who is no longer a part of my life, only a memory that I rarely recall because it hurts to much to re-live, and of course, as anyone who knows anything about the arrow of time, you can only go forward – you cannot go back.
Why do I write? To tell you all about the things that I want you to know.
Also coming soon by Amy J Steinberg:
My Other Life
Mental As Anything
Learning To Walk