28000 words into the whole story, and just over 19000 for nanowrimo, I’m rediscovering just what a journey through quicksand writing is. Especially writing a long project, like a novel.
Any kind of writing can take on a life of its own and squirm and wriggle under the pen (or keyboard), taking on unforseen shapes and changing its identity at will, but writing fiction seems to be particularly prone to this kind of problem.
It can be an alarming experience. You think you know what you’re writing, what kind of story you’re telling, who your characters are and what their reason for being is. Then suddenly you get a revelation and it knocks your socks off.
Your story isn’t about what you thought it was. Your characters reveal hidden depths and start to answer you back when you ask them to do something. And just occassionally, something really big rears its head and threatens to derail the whole project you’ve spent months brooding over and nurturing.
Alarming indeed. It’s tempting to think you’ve got to start again and just ditch everything you’ve done so far. The appalling train wreck you can see after the dust of the derailing settles, is somehow far more attractive to write about than the little shunt you’d originally envisaged.
But, come one, there are 28000 words between the start and the derailing. And if you do start again who’s going to promise there won’t be another train crash at the same station next time you get here?
So stop and think. Novels change in the writing. You start out with a specific idea. You develop that idea. You understand the concepts and the themes you’re writing to. You have the cast of characters in place and you have a nifty little pile of index cards holding scenes that point the way forward.
Except, except… novels change, and it can be alarming. To ditch or not to ditch becomes the question.
Hugely, totally and absolutely do not ditch.
DO NOT DITCH. REALLY.
Here’s the thing. It was writing this far that steered the story into the dodgy track that caused the derailment. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t see it coming and don’t quite know how to deal with it. All that matters is that you recognise what’s happening and take a step into your right (muse) brain until the answer presents itself.
Carry on writing as if you meant the disaster to happen all along. Follow the new path and see where it leads. Is it better? Is it delivering what it promised?
Don’t let a mid-story derailment spell the end of months of work unless and until it becomes clear that you need a new beginning, or you need to go back to the scene of the accident and undo it. By the time you’ve written the story, and maybe dealt with another train wreck further down the line, rewriting the beginning won’t seem like such a big deal, and certainly won’t feel like starting again. And by the same token, backtracking a few thousand words if you realise you’re heading into a siding means you still have your original 28000 to build on.
Far better to write a few thousand words down the wrong track, than undo 28000 perfectly good words in a state of crossly believing you’ve wasted your time, or worse, that you never could write in the first place.
