I am certainly not the first, nor the only, writer who has sometimes half-heartedly believed that the stories exist “out there” somewhere and are revealed to us if we are good and patient and still. And our job is to scribble them down as they are revealed to us. I can understand why the ancients believed in things like Muses, whispering in their ears, telling them the tales or the songs that were wondrous and so human.
I am busy writing the “last” Fathers and Sons* story, which is titled “A Tree Falls in the Forest,” as you know from my last post. It is zooming along. I am scribbling and trying to keep up as the story blossoms in my humble brain. As the words flow through my fingertips and onto the keyboard, I keep seeing implications across all of the twenty other stories in this cycle of mine. Echoes. Reverberations. Hints. Influences. Explanations. It’s all connected, and I’m more than a little surprised by this. I understand, of course, that this is merely the effect of knowing these characters and the general story line so well, but that’s the quantitative Paul thinking. The qualitative Paul is the one who must do the writing, and that fellow is naive and not worldly wise and is easily impressed by such things. Rube!
The story is coming together nicely. I should have it finished by the weekend, and then I’m going to rush it off to my two readers to incorporate in their gracious and perhaps vicious analysis. I know what must be done in the story to get it to the finish, and with nearly every word, I’m seeing how it is tied to the other stories. It will be integral; it will belong.
And this amazes me. I thought I was done, and perhaps I was, and yet I write one more and it fits like the piece of a puzzle. But I must, must, must declare an end. Right?
*And by this I mean the last One-Match Fire story, of course.