I’m writing chapter fourteen. This could possible be the last chapter in my novel. It could be the second to the last. I have the very end written in various places, so I know where I am writing to, but I’m a little lost in the meantime. I tend to wonder if I’m pushing hard enough, or perhaps my dithering is an important part of the process.
I have the urge to see my novel in different ways. I want to draw it on a long parchment and color it with a beautiful palate. I’m thinking grays and browns and maroons. I think some blues in there too. Warm ones.
Or I want to see it in macramé, each piece of yarn representing a plot thread, each knot the point where they intertwine and become one. At the bottom the threads tangle into knots, the weaver not sure where one ends and the other begins.
Or I want to go out onto the black of our newly sealed driveway with very white chalk and mind map the novel in enormous circles(really I have never found mind-mapping to work for me), great gestures(I think I have written about this before) of my novel that just capture the shape and the feel of it and somehow those long strokes would pull all my thoughts together into the rest of chapter fourteen which I believe is about what everyone doesn’t know(including the novelist).
In the past writing the synopsis worked. Somehow tracing my way in words from the very beginning helped find everybody in the present moment.
As Always(off to see the Wizard),