An Extremely Dangerous Woman (Writer in Dire Need)
If you don’t know our type, think of us as the ones that you don’t notice.
We’re virtually invisible.
Invisibility is just one of our super powers.
To all appearances, I was the epitome of quiet coffeehouse writer type, absorbed in her laptop, scribbling cryptic notes to herself, muttering.
To the tan women gossiping over lattes, to the kid hunched over thick calculus homework, to the little girl who pranced in light-up sneakers, I was virtually invisible, lost in my own world, mucking about in imagination.
It’s a useful illusion. To slip into invisibility by being so typical, so expected, that’s a gift. There, you are handed gifts in overheard comments, muttered curses, momentary glimpses into shy lovers’ hands twining. No one sees the person so accomplished at being unseen.
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I am a writer writing a story.
I’m in so deep, so very deep that I go invisible to myself at times. I write, I mull, I plot and mutter and jot notes for when I read it through. For me, there is no other way to be, working on the novel every day, showing up for the days when the flow is effortless and days of endless, spectacular choke.
In flow, I stop short of gaping holes in the story.
As I work my way through the scenes, knowing to be thrilled when a character goes off-script and improves the story, I have to leap over blank places.
I do my best to ignore them, to put in a placeholder and keep on going. Many times that works, other times the stumbling places form a menacing chasm.
I need to drop in an unnamed character, but what does he look like? I must add a specific shiny car that whizzes by and almost nicks a main character; what model, what year, what color, and what does it sound like? The weathered siding on the friend’s house requires a distinctive element worth noticing.
These story holes need filling.
Somehow, that requirement summons the answer.
The man at the hardware store looks like the unnamed walk-on guy. Walking back to my car from the library, I spot the perfect car. A postcard arrives in the mail heralding a treasure trove of decorations for sale this weekend only.
I wouldn’t know what the hole was unless I was totally engrossed by writing the story. Even this extreme, careful plotter and planner cannot anticipate everything — nor would I want to do so. There have to be some surprises or this challenging enterprise becomes a long, horrible slog.
I wouldn’t know how to address the hole and with what if I weren’t totally engrossed with the story, senses primed to receive each and every gift from the Universe. Think of this as a nearly perfect vacuum state — absorbing anything that comes within range and that has a chance of working.
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I recently met a writer who described how her first draft is rock-solid and ready to submit because she revises her work as she goes along. Each day, she reviews the previous day’s pages, edits and revises, and then writes new material. She is a perennial bestselling writer, so she’s onto something that works for her.
Maybe one day I’ll get there, know how to fill in the holes as I go along, but for now I’m that invisible person leaning back to catch a phrase, staring at the kid running circles at the beach, making friends with dogs and their people and starting a conversation.
Running into me, having a conversation can be dangerous if I am actively writing. I will look at you differently, noticing and trying on different approaches. I gather possibilities, springboard off them into something entirely new, created specifically to fill that critical story requirement.
Those story holes won’t fill themselves.
So I stay open to everything that comes my way.
