The Creative Process Is Not a Straight Line
I blew up my book yesterday.
This is something I always do, usually around the 70,000-word mark. I have three-quarters of the story down, but I don’t really know what the whole thing is going to be. I usually know the ending at this point, and I must embrace that I’ve deviated enough from my synopsis and 40 Scenes outline that it’s time to let it go and trust my subconscious has given me the tools to get the story to the end.
Seventy thousand words is when I can see all the mistakes I’ve made, and find a plan to fix them. It’s the blessing and the curse of being a gardener. At 70K, the flowers are coming up, and you can see that despite your best efforts several months ago to spread the seeds evenly across the ground and keep them watered, your planting was inconsistent. There are five peonies in the left corner, ten roses in the right, none of the begonias or hydrangeas came up at all, it looks like there’s a poblano pepper plant that you didn’t know you had seeded, and the middle of the bed is full of weeds.
Photo by Julia Kicova on UnsplashThe moment came at my favorite restaurant in Colorado, Pegasus, while eating a plate of chilladas (corn tortillas stuffed with scrambled eggs and cheese smothered in the best green chile you will ever taste) and it hit me like a lightning bolt. I had to borrow the server’s pen and filled a napkin with ideas. I love it when that happens, and I’ve learned that this is my process.
It was such an intense vision I had to shush my parents while I worked out the several angles I needed to shift. I think that might have been fun for them to see their young creative in action—my Dad is also my first reader and sounding board so he hears a lot of this as I’m going, but the action of me throwing my hands in the air and talking to myself was a new one for them.
I have a lot of “moments” when I’m writing a book. A true process. From one day to the next, I find moments of brilliance in my work, and moments of despair. I question why I tried to write this story, lament that I’ve chosen a mystery structure over thriller, then find a thread and shoot to the moon in joy. It’s like waves on the beach—they crash onto the sand, they withdraw, they crash onto the sand, they withdraw, over and over and over. It’s relentless, and on the surface, looks benign. But with each wave, the sands on the beach shift. My words build. They disappear. They build again. And eventually, they tip over into a complete draft.
The revision process starts this all over again. I love it. I hate it. I love it. I hate it. It’s frustrating and exhilarating, all at the same time.
I have to remind myself that it’s the same every book, so I don’t lose hope. That my creativity does not follow a straight line. If I have faith in my process, it will get me where I need to be.
What’s your creative process like?
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