Being Ready to Write a Story

Sometimes I start to write a story and it's all there, right on the tip of my brain just waiting to spill over onto the page. Most times that's not the case, though. Most times I write stories in stops and starts, pick them up, work in a frenzy, put them down unfinished—and maybe I don't pick them up again for months, sometimes years. Sometimes it takes years for me to finish a given story. This is also true for novels. Thank gosh golly I'm not one of those writers who loses it if I drop a story mid-draft.

Many times I've tried writing the rational, organized way that others manage, but it doesn't work for me at all. I tend to get writers' block if I go that route. Outlining, determined finishing of a story in one determined pushed—none of that discipline thing works. Those techniques are the only ones which well and truly kill a story for me.

I'm very dedicated about writing every day and I certainly can push through to the conclusion of a long piece of writing, but I seem to need that psychological permission to bail if I need to. Often I don't bail, but I need that option. My irrational technique works in terms of productivity because I've always got plenty of stories and novels in the pipeline ready to be picked up again. Something is always ready to be finished.

It's hard to say why a given story will all of a sudden sit up one day and say, "Hey! I'm ready!" I think there are probably a lot of different reasons. Sometimes I hit a certain point and realize I haven't done enough research; sometimes I've had false notions about my characters and have to stop until I know them better; sometimes I'll hit an unbreakable knot in a plot and know I have to let it be for awhile until my unconscious comes up with a better solution. I don't often consciously work on these problems, but the stories aren't dead in my back brain. I'll have dreams about them, daydreams about them, sudden insights, and I'll dutifully jot them down in the story's folder and go on with whatever I was doing. Eventually a sort of critical mass takes over and it's time to go; sometimes something really big slaps me in the face and I know it's time to tackle the story again.

Then sometimes, like tonight, I'll be reading or watching or discussing and a little lightbulb pops over my head and I'll realize that the reason I stopped writing Story A was because I have all the pieces there but the psychological or mythological undercurrents haven't been knitted together properly, or even understood properly. I wasn't ready to write the story because I hadn't advanced enough conceptually to get the job done.

I was reading The Philosopher's Secret Fire again tonight (my light weekend reading) and had such a breakthrough. The elements of Story A were in place, but I wasn't understanding the scenes and images my unconscious was throwing onto the page. Because the images confused me, the story confused me and I had to stop. I won't mention the story because the one thing besides organization that will kill a story dead for me is talking about it too much upfront. It very much has to be between me and my unconscious—our little secret. S/he's a very jealous animus/anima,

Odd, but I almost feel as if my Muse is male. Animus. If Keats's can be a belle dame sans merci I guess mine can be an homme. I hate categorizing him/her too closely, though. You never know what's going to p!ss Muse off and make Muse go hide.

I love my Muse, I do I do I do. I will feed my Muse strawberries and walnuts (don't ask me, that's what s/he wants) and dry my Muse's feet with my long, red hair if my Muse will only stay to play.

And play is the only way to get any work done in my world.