An essay about writing by Ann Patchett has stuck with me for several years. In the essay, Patchett described how a new book idea would glimmer in front of her like an iridescent butterfly. She knew the book would be just as beautiful. But in order to write the book, she had to grab the butterfly, wrestle it down to her desk, pin it in place (I believe more struggles ensued), and turn that gorgeous idea into an actual book. At which point the butterfly, its color gone, its wings wrecked, looked nothing like that initial shining image.
That is what writing is like. That is why writing can be such a struggle. The book in your imagination glows with possibility and beauty and truth. But then you start to write, and possibility becomes an unworkable plot; beauty becomes bland stereotypes; and truth turns out to be trite and trivial. But you keep slogging through, hopeful that at some point, the gorgeous butterfly will arise from the thicket of words on your page.
Usually, it does. It won’t look like your original idea, but it will be a good book or story. Even a great one. You just have to keep pushing through.
But sometimes you—and maybe that should be I, for I certainly struggle with this—while still tromping through the muddled middle of your book, uncertain of your path, frustrated with your characters, see light glimmering on the horizon. It’s not, however, the dazzling end to your book. It’s a new butterfly, a new book idea.
Yes! you (I) think. That’s the book I should be writing. Forget this dull drivel I’m struggling with. This isn’t the book I was meant to write; that new, brilliant idea is the one.
Resist. Because that new, brilliant idea will (probably) run the same course. Marvelous to start, full of possibility, so exciting as your fascinating characters lead you down unexplored byways, until you find a swamp. Or maybe a blank wall. The glimmer again dulls to dross.
This is where I am. A book I began a few years ago has been a challenge. Twice the main plot has led me down dead end streets and I’ve had to go back nearly to the beginning. Characters have been axed because they don’t fit the new plot. Or they endure radical transformations so they will fit. My chapter outline undergoes yet another revision. My process journal at this point is nearly as long as the book. And glimmering on the horizon is not a new book, but two books that I started writing some time ago that keep coming back around, reminding me of all their promise.
I resist. I tell myself when I have completed this round of revisions, I will pull out what I’ve written on those older books and at least look at them. Then they can go back to glimmering on the horizon, fluttering their iridescent butterfly wings, while I work on the final draft of my current (troublesome) novel.