... story neep ...
January 18, 1999
5:20 p.m.
There's a whisper at the edge of my dreams these past few days, and it feels like a fever slowly coming on. I was roaming through a couple of my old files this weekend when I came across an opening - just a little snippet, really, no more than 250 words. I let my fingers run over the keys and felt them speak a little. I changed a word. A sentence sprang into my head. Still, it was just a scene, and I didn't know where to take it. So I let it drop. Closed the file and set it adrift on the ether of the hard drive.   I woke up the next morning, yesterday, with a title roaming through my head. "Searching for Gandhi." Somehow, I realized, this was the title of that story. But it made no sense. The start of the story is about soldiers fer Chrissakes! So at that point I had no idea if it would stick, but I knew right then that title applied to those few hundred words. I went downstairs and added to the tail end of the story. By the end of the morning the story had grown tired. It paused and told me I was through for the day. Maybe 2,500 words. I felt like I had barely scratched the surface, but didn't know where else to go with it. That was okay, though. There were other things to do. We saw the Prince of Egypt yesterday. I enjoyed it. I think Brigid did, too. Lisa thought it was good as far as the story goes. Mid-way through the movie I heard another whisper. I wrote again when we got home. Maybe 500 words before the trail grew cold. By now I realize the tale is leading me on like a coy friend, or like the beaver in C.S. Lewis's Narnia tales, a few words at a time. As soon as I draw near it flits away into the mist. It's frustrating, and I'm even finding myself losing concentration for other things (like watching my beloved Cardinals beat DePaul on TV). That night. Laying in bed. I suddenly know the answer. I know where the main character is supposed to search, and I know, almost - but not quite, why it's titled "Searching for Gandhi." For a few minutes I think about getting up and writing it down before I forget it. But I know I don't have to. For some reason, I know it will stay with me all night. This morning I sat down and called up the file. I stretched my fingers and started to type. I was right. The answer stayed with me. I got a thousand words before it stopped this time. This afternoon, in the middle of a meeting at work, I received the next piece of the puzzle. I know what my main character will find, and the ending is revealed. Now it's like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with only a single piece missing from the middle. But it's the important piece. It's the piece that will tell me what the entire thing means. Usually, I like to have an idea of what my stories are going to be about when I sit down to write them. Usually, I like to understand the plot points, to see the gears working as I layer flesh over them. Mike Resnick once asked me in front of 80 or so people if I didn't think it was better to outline, to have your characters do what you want them to do. And I answered a definitive "Yes." But every now and again a character begins to whisper. And I've learned that it doesn't cost a cent to listen. Tonight, when I go to bed, I'm going to put my head on the pillow, and I'm going to close my eyes. And I'm going to wait for the story. What other choice do I have, though? I fancy myself a storyteller. And a storyteller will wait if that's what it takes.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions. I keep my visions to myself. It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams and, have you any dreams you'd like to sell?" Fleetwood Mac |
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