letters from Montpelier
11.3 the invisible angel
I spent the evening by the little heater in my room, eating peanut butter crackers and drinking tea, moving from the rocking chair to the floor to the cot; leaning, laying, sitting with my knees folded to my chest. I researched on my laptop and on my phone, I penned nine packed pages of plot ideas and backstory. Around 1 AM, I laid on the bed and closed my eyes.
It’s an idyllic scene, from the outside and for me. It’s exactly what I want; it’s exactly why I’m here.
The hard part: I'm not writing a book yet, or even a manuscript. I have 36 thousand words and pages of scribbled ideas, but it feels like I'm not making progress because I'm still building the shape of the story.
I have often seen a quote of Michelangelo's translated as "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." When I began this book, my angel was invisible. I was feeling around for a story, and I bumped into him. Working to reveal his shape, I wrote scenes as they came to me. Characters stretched their legs and lived on the page. I built them a house of paper and ink and watched what happened inside. They lit fires, and the smoke revealed the shape of an angel.
I saw a hand, the tip of a wing. I couldn't see it all at once, so I tried to remember the pieces and build the shape in my mind. Thousands of words began to sculpt his figure.
I stepped back and looked what I made. The proportions were off, so I adjusted the pieces and built it again. I made mistakes and realized it doesn't look right. This process is clumsy and often discouraging. My brain is an imperfect tool.
11.4 reprise
My brain is an imperfect tool. It's very busy, occupied with extant bits of life while I try to coax art out of it.
your head hurts and you need food.
drink water again. some more, yes. more! thirsty.
the sun is in your eyes. turn a little more to the left
these socks are soft and the heater feels so nice
remember when Nova ate a little bacon?
It's doing all those things, and I'm trying to write a book. Michelangelo used a key in a lock. I’m using a scalpel as a screwdriver.
11.5 36,086 scrapes of the shovel
November is NaNoWriMo — National Novel Writing Month. From November 1st to 30th, writers around the country crack out 50,000 words of their brand new novel. Or, NaNoWriMo Rebels like me write 50,000 new words of an existing project. It means you write about 1700 words a day. Since November 1st, that clock ticking toward a finished draft has pressed panic into my productive parts until just producing 75 words is painful.
I've begun to think I can’t do this.
Unhappy with what I've written, discouraged and feeling my plot strings slide out my fingers like helium balloons, I call an audible. We need a plan! We need reform! If this draft is going to get done by November 30th, I need to rip the shovel from my characters’ hands. You’ve been digging this hole for 36 thousand words! Put a damn plant in it!
I work on outlining a plot and it's a slowly building chaos: I'm still chewing on the information in those fourteen open tabs so I'll just open a new browser window. Writing happens in WordOnline, WordPad and a notebook. I need a new window, I need a another screen, I need a third computer. I can't see how all the work I've done fits together.
I am a desperate gardener sowing seeds in rocky ground. I read Ojibwe legends on Britannica and writing advice on MasterClass. I talk to strangers everywhere. The couch in Rabble Rouser, the deli in the Uncommon Market. Blues Jam in Bent Nails Bistro, and the bar of Charlie O's and Positive Pie and Three Penny Taproom. I spend a few hours reading the thesaurus.
I collect seeds any way I can, I cast them in the gravel, I wait for one to germinate. My weather conditions are dismal: I have a cold and my period and a hangover. I eat a croissant with ham and cheese. It feels like I spend a third of the day refilling my water bottle and refilling the Brita.
It’s November 5th, and I’m seven thousand words behind. Can one of these seeds grow into a plot?
11.6 the one where I go for a walk
Are you a gardener or a gatherer?
The gardener is plot-driven:
Plot-driven stories require a tight and well-developed story structure and a logical sequence of plot points. Plot is not something you find on the page as you write. It requires a large amount of planning and foresight. You should have a detailed view of your major plotlines and arcs before you begin any plot-driven story. MasterClass
The gatherer is character-driven:
Let the backstory generate the narrative. As you develop your character you’ll start to create relationships and arrive at themes you want to explore further. Follow these threads and see if a narrative unfolds. All you have to do is start with a character name and trust the process. MasterClass
Whether you’re a writer or not, you probably lean one of these ways. I do not live my life tight or well-developed; I follow threads until the narrative unfolds. That’s how I ended up here, and I quite like where I’m at. The gardener’s yard requires a large amount of planning and foresight; the gatherer follows deer through the forest and arrives at trails he wants to explore further.
Art is hard; why do I make it harder on myself by trying to be something I’m not? The two days I decided to be a plot-driven writer pass away. My characters roll their eyes and stand, retrieve flint and shovel, begin to live again.
After going to bed early, this day dawns on a happier girl. It’s Saturday, so I don’t feel as pressured to work. I eat Honey Nut Cheerios and hike up to Hubbard Park, where a very good dog named Hugo and very distinguished cat named Kirby make my acquaintance.
I’m inspired by a grey house clinging to the cliffs and the album Invocations/Conversations.
The ground is all hills and rocks and a blanket of golden leaves, and I find a trail to follow for a while. It takes me past a slackline, a huge rock of quartz, and a panorama of Montpelier; it dead ends and I walk through a backyard to get back to the road, trying not to look suspicious.
For the rest of the month, I’ll come back to these things.
My brain a beautiful and powerful thing. It is friendly and optimistic and I'm so grateful for it. I’ll coax art out of it and try to be kind when it doesn't do well.
Take a walk. I’ll hang out with my characters and let my brain do what it wants in this beautiful Green Mountain state.
Trust the process. It’s imperfect, and I’ll go down trails that dead end. I can feel like I’ve wasted the day, or I can stop worrying about the finished product and enjoy the journey.
And one day, maybe not November 30th, a flower will begin to bloom.
