Ups and Downs in Story Town

Last week I mentioned I had been doing some work on the story for DD4. What I didn't mention is how overwhelmed and uncertain I was feeling, and that's because I suspected things might turn around, if only I gave it a little time…

On Tuesday morning, I had a long chat with a trusted friend about DD4's story, and he gave me some notes and we kicked around some ideas, and I came away with some new problems. This is good, this is what I wanted. This is exactly why I asked for his input. As it turns out, though, I am still no expert at dealing with the repercussions.

I spent the rest of the day making notes and doing some exploratory writing, trying to wrangle the third quarter of DD4 into a more concrete form. I know where I want to end up, but I'm uncertain of exactly how to get there. The third quarter of the story is nebulous. As I did my writing on Tuesday, it began to feel… more nebulous. Like the problems of the story had become as overwhelming as the sea, and I was too weak to keep myself from drowning.

By the end of the day, I was so clearly underwater that my partner was asking me, "are you all right?"

I explained the situation. She asked if there was anything we could do. And I said, "no, I just have to push forward," thinking, this will all work itself out if I keep working at it and give it time, even though I was very much not confident that it would. This has happened before, but now—considering the scale of DD4—it all felt scarier. Would it all work itself out?

I woke up anxious on Wednesday. It was a flatting day, and I did my work with a knot in my stomach, thinking about all the little characters in the story and how it seemed so impossible to give them good reasons to get where I need them to go.  It's like trying to solve a Sudoku but you have to invent all the numbers, too.

Then it was Thursday, and I was on Toddler Duty. I wanted to try out a new bike rack I got for the car, so my plan for the day was to take our little ding-dong into Vancouver and cycle around. He rides in a kiddie bike seat that is easy to mount and unmount. I wonder if he could tell that my mood was low; he was very patient with me all day. I wonder, too, what he'll remember when he's grown up about his weird dad whose mood was partially based on how successfully he was steering imaginary characters through imaginary locales.

The work of getting to town and riding around was a good distraction, though. By the end of the day I was sweaty and tired and thirsty and had the year's first sunburn. We drove home. He would see a dump truck and ask if I liked the dump truck (you bet). He would see a crane and ask what it was building (a condo tower). We would pass a different construction site and he would want to see the excavators again (sorry, bud). He would see a noisy pickup and ask if I liked the noisy truck (not especially).

And then, half way down Granville street, with nothing but construction vehicles and rehydration on my mind, the story problems solved themselves. All the jumbled-up Tetris pieces sorted themselves into tidy lines. Everything that felt ambiguous and impossible at the end of Tuesday had reordered itself and become straightforward, thematically solid, and — best of all! — fun. I dictated it all at my phone, and now I have a long note outlining the third quarter of DD4. It's not perfect, and there's still a lot of work to do, but the story is in a much better shape than it was on Tuesday. And I feel good about it. Relieved.

I've mentioned this sort of thing before — the connection-making and idea-sorting of background brain work — and I'm not sure why I find it so interesting. Maybe it feels mystical, but if you don't want to believe in mysticism (and I'm no big fan), then maybe it's the thought of ideas settling in my head like coffee grounds at the bottom of a mug, all on their own. At first they swirled around, suspended among the cream and sugar. Wait a while, and they've formed a consistent blob. I love a consistent blob.

It's also maybe possible that the appeal here is that I get to go for bike rides and tell myself I'm doing work.

The last time I mentioned this, though, it was in the context of making a low-stakes useful connection, tying one story element to another. This time, everything felt scarier. Now, when the blob formed to offer its gifts to me, it was less a matter of feeling clever and more a wave of relief. On Tuesday I felt like I was groping in the dark. On Thursday, I had a lifeline to hold onto. It's rough, but it's something. Intellectually, I know that when stories are feeling wobbly, as long as I give myself time — and keep writing, and let my mind wander, and get some exercise — I'll find my footing again. Or…my footing will find me, whatever. But I find it difficult to put too much faith in a principle that leaves so much to chance. It's not a foundation I'd want to build upon. So I'm surprised and gratified at how much heavy lifting it did last week.

As a final note: I may have let my mind wander too much, because when we packed up to drive home, I left the kiddie bike seat on the side of the road in Vancouver.

(It was still there when I went back to get it, thank goodness.)

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Reminder! Please fill out the Patron Acknowledgement Form for Chapter Three if you have not done so yet.

Real printed books? Last week Reader Joel said, "crossing my fingers this gets a physical release."

Do not cross your fingers. Rest assured, relax your digits. There will be books.

In my ideal world, we make a book that Beehive Books would be proud to publish. I'll be straight with you: considering all the work that goes into this project, I can't help but feel like it should be A Beautiful Object in the end. Something you would raid a tomb for. I am terrified of running a Kickstarter—they're so difficult!—BUT I WILL DO IT IF I MUST.

And in the very worst-case scenario, if I run a crowdfunding campaign and it fails, I will print out the pages of this book, bind them by hand, and—who knows, maybe the mail system has crumbled by then—drive them to everyone's house. Overseas patrons? Your books might get wet as I paddle my raft across the ocean, but that will add a salty international je ne sais quoi. Don't call it "a wet book," collectors will be going mad for "The Saltwater Edition."

There will be books. <clenches fist>

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I remain,
as ever,
your salty international friend,

TC