:Stashing the Discovery Writer into Constricted Chapters and What Happens After
There is little advice out there on how to edit a book when you are a discovery writer. Unwritten chapters are always unruly and unpredictable, and we discovery writers thrive in that kind of play field.
Already written chapters, though, these are much too ordered and familiar, and thus, can feel like a bore, especially when at the end of a series of unedited chapters, empty and unexplored ones await. The discovery writer hopes to make quick business of them, editing them in rapid succession.
Few things are worse than coming across a chapter and finding that something unnamed is missing. A chapter that feels incomplete can drive the discovery writer to
madness.
For you see, we cannot simply craft good chapters. We unravel them, unearth them from some unknown place. Thus, at times, no amount of skill or experience can capture a thing that does not want to be found out so easily.
After all, the discovery writer rarely discovers the same way twice, and thus, knew methods of discovery need constantly be found.
The constricted playing field of an incomplete chapter soon starts to feel like a
prison when there is so little room for new things to be stirred.
Another writer once said that the first draft of a book is like shoveling sand into a box so that you can build sand castles later.
But being a discovery writer means getting carried away sometimes, and, most of the time, the first draft looks more like a box of sand with half constructed castles left abandoned.
We are much too playful a lot to be expected merely to shovel, and when an exciting idea comes to us, we do not like to wait before the fun can begin, and so, we build fractional castles in the pits we find. If we get bored we simply tell ourselves we will be back later to complete them, and so, we leave them behind, at least, for a time.
So, the discovery writer will inevitably continue on with the brief thought that the castle was almost done anyway and that it shouldn't take too much work later to complete it.
We
can all imagine what happens next: time passes, the writer has many
adventures and eventually returns, finding to their dismay that the castle does not look nearly as complete
as they remember.
There are so many things to consider when writing a book. It is easily to forget to note them all. Naturally, there are some
things that you do not discover until the second time you pass through.
Some things aren't noticed until one has spent a great deal of time
speculating and possibly obsessing over a chapter, feeling a bit like a
half baked detective who knows in their bones that some detail is being missed but can't quite make out what it is.
We know still that we have been here. We have vague
memories of the fun we had. We do not, however, know what has changed.
Is it our perception or the creation that has been altered and left
unsatisfied?
More
often than not, once the thing which has so long evaded you is
discovered it will be so jarringly obvious you will not be able to think
of anything else. Sometimes it is a quick fix of the narrative, a
thread with a unintentional loop straightened out or line with a small
rift that needs mending. But, sometimes, and that is to say this
particular time to which I am referring, one finds oneself inside a small void.
I myself recently came across one.
I must say, I thought it suspicious when, pausing inside a chapter near the end of Part One, I found that I had carelessly left a whole room utterly devoid. Not a line of description was in it.
I knew that there was something missing. But how, I wondered, could one misplace an entire room, especially when that room is at the top of a tower?
Now, this would be little to fret over under normal circumstances. The details of a setting are something I do not tend to until I've come through at least twice. But I have been here in this chapter (and thus, in this chamber) at least four times now, and never had I noted the gaping hole that was this rather large, rather baffling space. It utterly escaped my attention, and so, it immediately peaked my interest.
The size of it was one thing to consider, for I knew it be a colossal space. I had discussed the view from its windows and drawn the reader's attention to its rising form on more than one occasion. But the inside, I realized, was otherwise a mystery.
I admit, the discovery put an abrupt halt in my progress, and even now, weeks later, I am still here, lost in this empty room, trying to decipher what it means.
It is a different kind of discovery I am experiencing now, for in my book I have found a narrative gap in the form of a large room, which, beyond its vastness of size, is much too mysterious and strange to not also have some secret vastness within the plot.
What ever I fill it with, I know it cannot alter the plot too consequentially; cannot even stray into the chapters surrounding which were completed long ago; it cannot do much but be, and add; cast shadows into the narrative and give flickers of the story.
What else could be stashed away into secret chambers where characters don't so much as utter a line? What else but secrets of the plot?
So, as I shift through its contents and study its walls, I see shadows and secrets unfold.
I know I have seen these shadows before, in my musings and vague designs; I have plotted these schemes; I wrote these secrets into private notebooks once, and so, it is not their existence that surprises me.
I did not, however, expect to find them here. For the life of me, I cannot remember stashing them all away up in this tower, in this room which, day by day, becomes less empty, but no less puzzling.
That is, perhaps the most perplexing part of it all: for, if I didn't stuff them in this chamber, who did?
