An Empty Room in a Half-Constructed Castle

: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?

 

 

Why Tolkien Left Middle-Earth

Wisdom From Gandalf on the Nature of Stories

"It has been brought forth and must now go its appointed way in the world, though naturally I take a deep interest in its fortunes, as a parent would of a child. I am comforted to know that it has good friends to defend it against the malice of its enemies."

~Tolkien on The Lord of the Rings

 

In a letter that Tolkien may have never actually sent, he recounted a peculiar conversation he once had with a man at Oxford whose name he had forgotten.

He could recall little else about the gentlemen of mystery other than that he was well known, though ill-remembered by Tolkien later on, despite the interesting conversation he shared with him.

This conversation took place somewhere neigh twenty years after the publication of The Lord of the Rings. Though the exact date of it is unknown, it was by it that Tolkien believed to have discovered the answer to a well-worn question of his. Remarkably, the answer was, as Tolkien later recalls, offered to him as if by Gandalf himself! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(some things), Tolkien claimed "may explain to some extent why it (The Lord of the Rings) 'feels' like a history; why it was accepted for publication; and why it has proved readable for a large number of different kinds of people... It does not fully explain what has actually happened."

What a strange question. Yet to be sure the answer cannot be horribly simplified by the simpleminded, one should note that Tolkien was not asking about the logistical explanation for his success. 

When a reader asks a similar question of the author (namely how a work was created? or where its inspiration came from?) it does not seem to the inquirer nearly as large a question. The word why is not used, after all, and questions that deal in where and how usually seem far more traceable than the the large untraceable why.

A great many readers did ask this of Tolkien. Questions like "where did your inspiration come from?" or "how did you come with these ideas" plagued him. As a younger man he took the time to explain the mystery of his discovery of Middle-Earth. As he got older, he had little patience for it.

But naturally, when the writer doesn't supply a suitable answer, the reader will try to solve the mystery themselves. Usually they will seek to do this in small ways, like examining the things they encounter that remind them of the work (such as other works of art), or inspecting the authors lives, both of which Tolkien hated. Some inquirers were more persistent, however. Many wrote to Tolkien, asking him for answers. Some were lucky enough to interview him.

Yet when the man whose name Tolkien could remember asked him a similar question (though greatly disguised by his words) Tolkien was suddenly and expectantly given an answer by someone whom one might suppose far wiser than he himself: namely, Gandalf. 

"I think I can now guess what Gandalf would reply...", Tolkien wrote. For just as Tolkien dismissed the inquiry, the mysterious gentleman fell silent, and stared "fixedly" and said, in a voice much like Gandalf's,

"Of course you don't suppose, do you, that you wrote all that book yourself?"

"Pure Gandalf!", Tolkien states.

And then, being well familiar with Gandalf and his ways, he considered his answer.

"I was too well exposed with G. to expose myself rashly, or to ask what he meant. I think I said: 'No, I don't suppose so any longer.'"

All in all, the conversation echoes of Gandalf's advice to Frodo. His words to Frodo in the Mines of Moria are not so different, in a way. No one can put one in one's place quite so simply and thoroughly as Gandalf, whether that be to put one back where one belongs, or bring one forth and out onto the greater way.

'I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.'
Gandalf: 'So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides that of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, in which case you were also meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought.”

One cannot help but feel that Tolkien was likewise meant to find Middle-Earth and all that happened in it. (He always said that Middle-Earth was his discovery, not his invention.)

One could say a great deal about why Tolkien's creation has remained so astounedly successful. (I know I could). But perhaps that has little to with Tolkien himself and much more to do with those that aided him in its creation. C.S. Lewis and his youngest son Christopher Tolkien certainly come to mind.

But maybe it wouldn't be so crazy to say that Gandalf helped a little too.

One can easily chuckle about this notion. But it is, after all, a strange relationship an author has with their characters. They are not really "theirs", nor are they fully of them. Even those that resemble the author (as Tolkien claimed Faramir did) are not really theirs to keep.

The author has them only for a time, like a friend that they know and love for a short while who will one day move away. The author may at times wonder how that friend is doing, they might even consider writing to them, but it is unlikely that they ever will. 

Their characters have passed into the Grey Havens, a place only attainable from afar. One may catch glimpses of that distant shore, but neither reader nor writer will ever walk there in this lifetime. The pages of a book work the same way for us as the roundness of the earth does for the worlds of men: the best we can do is go back to where we started, travel round the globe, go there and back again, and start anew.

Eventually the author must let go of their characters. This is an inevitable truth. Even those that refuse to do so will eventually find that their characters are not the same; that they are less alive than they once were. Indeed, many writers suddenly find that they are unable to write about their characters. It is as if they aren't there anymore, living in the hole where they once dwelt; all that remains are the writer's memories of them and what they might have said or done in a given situation. But the story is over, and its characters, like its author, must move on eventually.

Many wise authors have abandoned sequels to their great works. Thus, their story ends well and its characters are allowed to retire (whether they pass into death and legend, or to have untold adventures on the road that goes ever on). And so, Bilbo walks down the road to Rivendell at the start of The Fellowship of the Ring, and not even Tolkien was able to follow.

In the same letter in which he recounted this conversation, Tolkien, in words that seem to rekindle Bilbo's own narrative tone, wrote that

"Looking back on the wholly unexpected things that have followed its publication ... I feel as if an ever darkening sky over our present world has been suddenly pierced, the clouds rolled back, and an almost forgotten sunlight had poured down again. As if indeed the horns of Hope had been heard again, as Pippin heard them suddenly."

And that is where the author stays, eventually: retired into the routine of their own life with abundant memories of their adventures, now behind them. His letters reveal just how often Tolkien would return to his memories of Middle-Earth, in one way or another, reminiscing about the events of his works like once lived adventures he had been fortunate enough to witness.

After all, Tolkien knew well that

"The L.R. (The Lord of the Rings) does not belong to me."

If it had, he may have stayed there forever; might have returned there often to walk in its hills or have tea with Bilbo. Indeed, one would like to think he could. But Bilbo doesn't live in Bag End anymore. 

What a sad thought this is. And yet, if one really thinks about it, one cannot help but feel that it is better this way. For all great adventures end eventually. It is only so that new adventures can be had, and a new Hobbit can come to live at Bag End. As Tolkien wrote long before his journey through Middle-Earth was over,

"So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings."

(The Hobbit)

 

 

It was by discovering Middle-Earth that a desire was in me awakened to write and to create things that likewise arouse such fondness in others. (How marvelous it is to be fond of a place that one can carry in one's bag, in one's mind, and in one's heart! Only books can fit worlds in such little spaces; can cram worlds to explore and get lost in into words, and keep hearths to sit by and call home into paper!)

But reading Tolkien's letters has reminded me that all things have to end. Books always run out of pages sooner or later. That is the nature of things. But it is both a sadness and a blessing. For it is only in ending that they can become fond memories.

 

 

 

 

I may still be in the midst of my own adventure. And while I think often of the day when I can look back on all that I have said and done with fondness, I cannot forget to take the time to enjoy the journey for all the joys and struggles that it still has to offer me.

Even Tolkien had to leave Middle-Earth eventually, after all. But I am not yet ready to leave mine.

My book will run its course one day, and then the words will leave me. I may write about other things, but nothing will ever again be written about the realm I once knew and walked. Even an author can overstay their welcome in their world.

For now, I know that at least that it is not ready to leave me. There is much still to discover, and I am not finished with it yet.

 

On goes the road, as ever and always old stories continue to give way to new ones.