My novel is unfolding in an oddly beautiful way. Each time I sit down a different mood or thought overtakes me. I write for about an hour which usually results in 800 to 1,000 words. It is as if I am fitting together bits of broken brick, like this photo. One day a corner piece, the next an oblong rectangle, the next a solid square. Slowly, over the last three months a path is beginning to emerge.
I know my main character. I know the obstacle to her happiness. I know of her search for love, her many failures, the small things that make her happy. As I get to know her a plot is emerging. I now have several villains and apparent villains. The plot thickens. Ah, now a ghost appears. And now a battle in the rainy night. And now the devastating scene of realization when she discovers her lover is her enemy.
But none of this is happening in a linear fashion. I sit down and a scene comes out. Sometimes it is a scene from the middle of the book. Sometimes at the end or before this story began.
What my novel is teaching me is to trust that this will all come together. Trust that my way is worthy, valuable and worth following. Trust that though I don’t really know the way, the way knows me.
I am envisioning a day in the future when I will cobble together a path, from start to finish. Already, upon reading back what I have written, I can see that much will not be kept, not for this book anyway. But for another book? Another path through the garden made from these early morning bits?
None of the books on writing I have read have ever spoken about writing in this manner. But then, no one has ever been me before.