And then, quite suddenly, after a week or two of plain
sailing, with the story apparently running merrily before the wind of
inspiration, the novel hits some kind of block. Perhaps I thought I knew which
way the story was going, but without warning it develops a kink and seeks to
rush off in a new direction, and if I stop to consider this, or to work out
which way I should take it next (should I follow the interesting subplot that
has occurred to me, or plough on with the original trajectory?) then the whole
thing can grind to a halt. There are then two choices: to go on sensibly, if on
rather leaden feet, writing the story as it was originally planned – which has
the advantage of its being well thought out and all fitting together neatly
into the original schema; or to try to see where this new idea might lead. And
if I’m not careful, in the midst of this indecisiveness, the whole plot falters,
and the inspiration for the next section fails. Or perhaps I simply lose my way
in the immediate plot and am left with a bridging section that I just can’t
capture.
Does it really matter what happens to these characters that
I thought were so interesting? I ask myself. Shall I just wipe the whole lot
out, or (more prudently) save it in a Pending folder, and start on something
else (there are always two or three novels hovering somewhere in the wings of
my mind, clamouring for their turn in the sun)? The lack of paid work suddenly
seems a nuisance rather than a blessing – at least I know what to do with the
copyediting and indexing, and they have the virtue of, well, being paid; and if
there were outside work clamouring for my attention I shouldn’t have to sit at
my desk with the screen in front of me, trying to work out what to write next. Fortunately,
if I really get stuck, before too long another offer of copyediting or indexing
will usually come along and rescue me, and the cycle repeats itself, with my
finding the next part of the story reeling itself off, and longing yet again
for some space to write it in. This can feel very frustrating.
And yet, it may be that this stop-start progression is
actually how the writing process works for me. Perhaps I need to have the story
percolating somewhere out of sight beneath the level of conscious thought, to
spring out ready to be written when time becomes available. Perhaps I shall
never be able to write in long swathes of time, as I constantly dream I will –
looking with envy on bestselling authors who have the luxury (or so it looks to
me) to write full time – one day, when I retire, when I don’t need to help with
the family finances, when my children are grown up and don’t need my time and
energy (and if you’re reading this, Izzy, don’t feel that I grudge it …), when (if?)
my novels start to sell well and there is therefore the financial incentive to
write more quickly (my two published novels each took years to write, edit and
hone before they were ready to go out into the world, and I sometimes still
want them back to make improvements!). One day… The dream is important, in
itself, I think. It keeps me looking forward, making the most of the time there
is, continuing to stretch for the best writing I can do, and hoping that as
time goes on I will be able to write better. If it feels disruptive to go back
and forth between the creative work of writing and the reactive work of
copyediting and indexing, yet perhaps that tension in itself keeps the
inspiration ticking over.
Who knows? This week I’ll finish the indexing work on which
I’m engaged at the moment, and there will be some weeks when writing (between
school summer holiday duties) will be tantalisingly possible.
I’ll let you know how it works out ….
