You should write because you don’t know what you know, and writing is a beautiful, sometimes magical way to find out.
Having read a moving story, or watched a great film, we may marvel at the author’s talent, the breadth of their imagination, the insight and wisdom brought to bear on the subject matter. But while we are reading or watching, we are so immersed in the journey of the main character(s) as they wrestle with the problems they face, that we rarely stop to consider the author faced those problems too and wrestled with them equally. Works of art, whether literary, visual or musical, once created, seem to have an independent life. They reach us fully formed, complete. The artist, in this case the writer, surely knew what she or he was doing by creating the story, the conclusion reached being decided on well in advance. Didn’t they?
In practise – and any biography of a famous writer will bear it out – this is far from true. What we see is the finished article, what we don’t see is the process gone through, the mistakes and subsequent lessons learned, the confusing, infuriating uncertainty of it all, and the blessed relief when somehow (God knows) the work emerges intact through the fog.
The protagonist of the story – the hero – faces down his creator on the final page. Staring blankly, whether in triumph or despair, shaken, dazed, he asks: “Is this what you meant?”
Author: (shrugs) I suppose so.
Hero: I thought I’d come out of this a lot better.
Author: I thought so too.
Hero: Wasn’t this supposed to be a comedy? It got very dark. That twist at the end; I didn’t see that coming.
Author: Me neither.
Hero: Frankly, I feel betrayed. You promised me a feel-good story with a witty, loveable hero at its heart: me! Now I’ve gone and killed my best friend and stolen his best girl! AND … I’ve got away with the whole thing, walked away smiling! How do you think that makes me look?!
Author: What can I say? That’s how it ends. Go figure.
Well, not quite. I’m not implying that the average author’s process is simply to stumble about waiting for the story to tell itself. There must always be a plan, a map of sorts. I equate the writer’s journey with that of a sixteenth century seafarer. You start with a rudimentary map (the premise), you have a compass (your intuition), and the stars to guide you (your friends and loved ones, if you’re lucky). You set out to find a new trade route through to India travelling West and end up discovering America.
Your intuition, your compass, is the key. Those fabled writers who speak in glowing terms of ‘The Muse’ – “I simply start writing and the characters begin to speak for themselves. I’m merely the passenger.” – they are being a little disingenuous. They have prior knowledge, courtesy of their experience, inside knowledge of the way in which their intuition guides them. To torture the analogy, they are like old sea dogs, sniffing the breeze and watching how the waves break before declaring which course the ship should take. And yes, to some extent the words will seem to come from nowhere. But the Muse is a purely internal phenomenon, magical to the extent that our minds are capable of magic.
You have a premise; you turn it into a plan, (in television terms a ‘treatment’ or ‘scene-by-scene’). That planning is the hard part, because without it you run the risk of leading with your ego, tossing out random lines because they sound cool until you run out of steam and turn away, disgusted and disillusioned. But if the plan is workable, if it’s half good, if you can see potential for conflict and interest then you are perfectly equipped. Perfectly equipped! If you’re fearful that you may not have the capacity to make it all the way then you have missed the point entirely. Write the first chapter or the first couple of scenes and put the pages away for a few days. Come back to them and see what they are telling you. It is likely to be bad news. What did you expect?
Build on what you have done so far. Be fearless in the face of your own inadequacy. It’s hard enough to come up with a premise; at least you did that. Making marks on that blank page is harder still but press on. I can say with complete confidence that the most overworked and rewritten parts of any story I’ve ever told are the first few pages. Once I get into my stride and subsequent scenes offer me hope and encouragement, I generally look back on my initial efforts and blush. Reading teaches you about the world, but writing is the better educator, because it teaches you about you and your place in that world.
Don’t ask the stars to guide you. Your writing will guide you.
