Story Ghosts from NaNoWriMo Past…
This year’s NaNoWriMo novel is tucked safely to rest, but all is not quiet. It is noisy, raucous, rude, and rowdy with stories erupting, brawling, and pleading for me to choose them to work with next.
The most pathetic and forlorn of the stories hover around the edges. Hanging their little story heads, they shift from side to side, uneasy and not sure that they should even be involved in this melee.
The stronger of the stories, the ones that I loved when we worked together, are blessed with characters that shout their names, insist that the next time around is the charm, and why not give a sure thing a chance. Jumping, loud little story sprigs might never work out into anything decent. At least the former NaNoWriMo novels have proven story arcs and sustainable interest for both of us.
There is Denny with his suddenly materialized car from high school. There is the guy who lost his job and broke the plate glass window for his cubicle area. There is the woman who staged houses and learned how to make a home. One story that is getting louder is the story of Arlen and the young woman he saved from drowning.
I love them all.
All they need is some time and attention. I started reading one of them earlier today. It’s been several years, so I didn’t remember the story that well and had the great good pleasure of enjoying it all over again.
These older stories and I grew up together.
They taught me everything that I know about story. More than any course, conference, guide, actually sitting down and working with a story has developed my storytelling.
However, the new ideas are vying for attention. Those old ones already had their time — and their time is long past. What value is there in revisiting old territory when the bright, the new, the sparkling are so entrancing?
The newer stories beguile.
How to choose between them, where to use my newly developed skills? I could do more than one, but that idea doesn’t appeal.
I loved working on one draft, giving it all my attention. The snippets of conversation that sparked new ideas were given to that draft. Chance sightings of rare and wonderful, overhearing incredible conversation, the slant of light on the fall leaves, all contributed to that story.
What if the old and new stories work together?
I don’t know yet what that means. The stories themselves are struck dumb, shaking their heads at the foolish writer who doesn’t get how egotistical and marvelous each individual story is and must be if it’s to be strong, powerful, and genuinely interesting.
I push my way through the stories, promising them that I’ll be back later. I’ve got to rub my dog’s head, make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and page through a magazine and see what comes, what strikes me.
Don’t worry, stories, I will be back. We’ll have a terrific time together. How about you guys come up with some ideas about what to do?
