In Medias Res...
Within the simple is the complex. So often I get tangled in words and miss the gist of what I really want to say. Today, once again, I wondered if I have both the capacity and the gift to write an extended piece. But how do I know if I don’t discipline myself to sit down and write. Perhaps tether would be a more apt word.
Perhaps the age of immediate gratification has rubbed off on me. An extended piece can’t fit into that category. And is a story percolating within ready to jump out and produce words and sentences and paragraphs or is there a dearth of ideas?
I’m not adverse to revision. In fact I welcome the work. It is the hardscrabble scratching of my pen that deters me. Suppose I discover that I can only write the barest of settings, the shadows of plot, the flimsiest of characters? Then what? Then I’ll write a bon mot or a pithy sentence.
Today, while drinking a cup of coffee, and wondering about our closet and the ice dams and the damage two weeks ago and the insurance, I let my mind wander and think about the story line. Notice I said the— which means that I must have an itch of an idea.
Somewhere I read that a writer knows the ending when they start to write. You write toward that ending. Everything points in that direction. But, and here’s the rub, I’m not certain about my ending. Toni Morrison said that she knew the ending of Beloved the moment she began to write. It’s like setting out on a trip and having a destination. The middle is all about getting to that place. Sure sometimes people set out without a destination and that amounts to a lot of wandering about. The main character’s peregrinations across the landscape may offer some amusing escapades but the reader looks for some connection, some movement. No one, especially the modern reader wants to be at a standstill.
Before I begin I need to know my ending. And an ending is always in medias res—just as the beginning. The ending can’t truly be the finale—another story begins to form the moment the writer stops writing.
Perhaps the age of immediate gratification has rubbed off on me. An extended piece can’t fit into that category. And is a story percolating within ready to jump out and produce words and sentences and paragraphs or is there a dearth of ideas?
I’m not adverse to revision. In fact I welcome the work. It is the hardscrabble scratching of my pen that deters me. Suppose I discover that I can only write the barest of settings, the shadows of plot, the flimsiest of characters? Then what? Then I’ll write a bon mot or a pithy sentence.
Today, while drinking a cup of coffee, and wondering about our closet and the ice dams and the damage two weeks ago and the insurance, I let my mind wander and think about the story line. Notice I said the— which means that I must have an itch of an idea.
Somewhere I read that a writer knows the ending when they start to write. You write toward that ending. Everything points in that direction. But, and here’s the rub, I’m not certain about my ending. Toni Morrison said that she knew the ending of Beloved the moment she began to write. It’s like setting out on a trip and having a destination. The middle is all about getting to that place. Sure sometimes people set out without a destination and that amounts to a lot of wandering about. The main character’s peregrinations across the landscape may offer some amusing escapades but the reader looks for some connection, some movement. No one, especially the modern reader wants to be at a standstill.
Before I begin I need to know my ending. And an ending is always in medias res—just as the beginning. The ending can’t truly be the finale—another story begins to form the moment the writer stops writing.
1 Comments:
You have a gift for short pieces. I suppose the key to write a longer piece is finding the link, or creating the link, or pulling the link out of the air that will connect the dots of many smaller pieces. As in a dream, all your characters are really you. If you do figure it out, I want to be one of your readers, and I want you to share the secret.
jim
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