Have you ever driven somewhere only to arrive at your destination not remembering anything about the journey (please, don’t be just me)? Your mind wandered off, leaving your body to self-guide a two ton vehicle onward. It turns out, writing can be a little like that (again, please don’t be just me). But with writing, someone else helps take the wheel (more on this later – though I could argue St. Christopher is often present while I’m driving).
I finally finished rereading my entire book, creating an outline as I went so I can see where I need to add scenes or information. The good news is I don’t seem to have too many plot holes, but I do need to add a few scenes here and there. But what really surprised me was how little I remembered of the details. I know I wrote all those words, I have the coffee and wine stained clothes to prove it. I remember thinking about how the story would play out. But I read pages full of dialogue I don’t recall writing, jokes I couldn’t have thought up if I tried. I tied up plot points I didn’t know I planned, and my characters found distinct voices without much forethought on my part. In other words, I don’t remember a whole lot about writing or planning – it just kind of happened.
Don’t get me wrong – I know all that came from me and I fully intend to take credit for all the good stuff – but I’m baffled by where in my brain it oozed out of.
I’m currently reading Stephen King’s treatise about the craft of writing called (funny enough) On Writing. If you have even a passing interest in writing, this is a must. I don’t like most of King’s books, not because I think they are poorly written, but because I’m not a huge fan of horror (it wriggles under my skin and haunts me indefinitely – the fourth grade girl inside of me is still terrified to look in a mirror after midnight). In On Writing, he refers to his muse, a cigar chomping man who lives in his basement and occasionally shows up to throw a few crumbs at him. I like this image – a lot. It explains how the unplanned good stuff miraculously appears on the page. Though I envision my muse taking the form of a cranky old lady, like the cartoon Hallmark uses to shill greeting cards (I think they call her Maxine).
What fascinates me about this entire process is my lack of planning. I thought I’d plotted out my novel, knew what would happen, but I really didn’t. Sure, it ended where I wanted it to, but how I got there looks much different (and better) than I planned. I accept this as evidence of Maxine the Muse taking over at the keyboard. We just met and I hope to see a lot more of her. I’ll even make the martinis and supply the chocolate.
So, dear reader, I’m off to finish up some edits. I’m almost ready to start shipping my manuscript to some Beta readers. I’ll let Maxine take the credit for the good stuff.
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