Spiral--cut

The new novel is underway, has been for a couple weeks now. After taking down notes regarding who the characters were, what they wanted, and how they might achieve those goals, I tinkered with the setting. Questions came up, about timing and motivations and pacing and other narrative elements. I answered some, and others arose out of those efforts. After the notes I constructed the beginning of an outline. I can never build the entire thing, because I always learn new things within the writing, about the characters and sometimes about the setting. After the outline, I got to work.

I've since written to the end of that outline, and I wish I had something to compare it to. I always struggle with the beginning and the end. I suppose it must be a lot like flying a plane. There's a lot of convenient instrumentation to keep the craft aloft once it's there; once I know where the story wants to go and what it's about, I can guide it just fine. The taking off and the landing are tricky. But more than that, each new novel is like a totally different machine. I find myself focusing this time around on motivation, to a heightened degree. Who wants what and why. I find myself trying to dial that in and then strapping it down. Arranging all of that within a timeline that is most compelling is my objective, and in other novels I've been better at finding that rhythm and just dancing along with it. This time it feels like there's a lot of ways it could go, which makes me drawn to trying to divine what is the best one.

Once I get there, I'll be a lot more confident, and things will be free to fly. For a long time, I've been aware of where the book is going, which is rare. That might be contributing to my stronger desire to pick my way along, splitting time between looking at my end goal and looking at what my feet are doing. Between the two, I think I'm much more of the latter type. I get to the end when I get to the end. That natural narrative state is comfortable for me.

A friend went on a vacation recently, and told me she was picking up my book to get into it while relaxing. I was warmed by that idea. I felt warm and joyful. Then I slept on it, and I got really nervous. I thought about musical artists I like, and comparing their earlier records to their recent ones and noticed how everything is different. The artists themselves, and the world around them, oftentimes as a result of the changes they made to the world. At this point it's been over 10 years since I wrote that book. My heckles rose as I thought about the mistakes I made and the failures of the work. There was something deeply dissatisfying about all of it. I didn't know what to do with that feeling, so I put it in my pocket and I've just been carrying it around. Like a bottle top.

I don't know of what use rigid calm is, but that's what I got. I guess sometimes you need a parachute, but all you have is a raincoat.