The Story Chooses Us

by Shannon Anderon

I've been writing a novel now for about two years. Originally the story was only a concept, a nebulous idea I toyed with, long before it was an actual work in progress. For about seven years I thought I was working on my novel, but I was only writing down fleeting thoughts about plot and character. What I now understand is back then I had no idea how to complete a book length work of fiction, not until I made a study of writing, the process and the craft. I thought I knew how to tell a story, and I did, but I also needed to learn how to organize my ideas into a workable plan and how to break that plan into manageable segments to complete. Perhaps most importantly, I needed to learn self-discipline to write for a certain amount of time or a predetermined word count. I’ve found word count rather than time limit works for me. When I set my goal, usually 500 words, I inevitably write far more than that, but I start with 500. Once I get into the groove--when the muse shows up to grace my writing--the writing happens outside of time. Often at the end of my writing, I will look up to discover I've written double what I set out to accomplish and without my realizing it, three hours will have flown by. I feel energized and can't wait for the next writing session. In fact, when I finish writing, I feel satisfied and hungry for more at the same time. I keep track of these writing sessions: the word count, what I accomplish, where I left off in the narrative so I can easily find my way back into the world of my characters or catch back up with my muse, who is an elusive creature, but when she shows up, she blesses my work with ease and facility.

           

The feeling of going into my consciousness, of following my muse, and allowing a story to unfold fulfills an inexhaustible need in me, yet I didn't discover this need until I became serious about my book. Through writing I connect with something greater than myself. Call it creativity, call it a higher power, call it a muse; I'm not sure what the connection is, but I feel transported when I write: refreshed, renewed, and also tired and satisfied, as though I drank some secret potion of health and happiness. When I'm connected with the place where writing flows, where creativity rises like a tide, that welling forth happens without my conscious effort, almost as though I don't do the writing, but some other entity takes over in my stead and controls the keyboard. I see clearly what is happening in my story, but not at first. If I trust the writing to take me where I need to go, I see my characters as real, feeling human beings. I become a bystander, a witness to their lives, separate from my own. When I think back to what I worked on over the holidays, I see Faith in an ivory traveling ensemble with low-heeled, cream, kidskin boots, the hem of her dress muddy from the previous day's rain. I see Josiah, Faith's husband of only one day, with his graying sandy hair in stark contrast with the brown moleskin jacket and his sad eyes the color of whiskey in the sun. They are riding in a covered coach toward Charleston past the Ashley River on a spring morning. I smell the sulfurous tidal flats juxtaposed with the freshness of the pines and jessamine blooming in the woods. I feel Faith's sorrow as she sees her home retreat into the distance, and I see the longing in Josiah's eyes when he looks at Faith. I see these people and places, yet I really see only the keyboard in front of my eyes, as though I'm in two places at once. This is the wonder of writing, this connection with whatever primal energy we must engage to write and finish our projects.

And that is just what I am trying to do: finish my novel by April. As of today I have written 62,300 words. I only need to write between 90,000 and 100,000. I am two thirds of the way there, and I know I will finish, but I once doubted I would. At first the idea of writing a novel overwhelmed me. My story idea came from the old game Masterpiece. I chose the card from the game that was a reproduction of the painting, Paris Street; Rainy Day by Gustave Caillebotte, and the story was born. It has undergone so many changes it is now unrecognizable from that initial burst of inspiration, but I didn't choose to write about this couple, Faith and Josiah. They chose me, and they have a complicated story. When I first started writing it down, so much was happening in my mind I became lost in the wide expanse of their world. I hadn't given that world boundaries of time and place. Then when I researched the Reconstruction time period, I became lost in the research and almost gave up. There was so much to learn and think about. But Faith still calls to me to tell her story, so I continue. I have learned that writing a book, a first book anyway, is a two steps forward, three steps back process of learning. It is a marathon rather than a sprint and requires sustained effort. From writing my first novel I have also learned to have faith in myself. At times I become discouraged because writing is hard work, but I know I will finish. I have faith in myself and in the process of writing. And I know when I type the words "The End" on the last page of my manuscript, the final product will have achieved mythical status for me: my first novel. There will never be another first novel for me. I know the effort, the research, and all the tears I've cried trying to figure out how to write my first story will have been worth it.