Last Sunday, I woke up early. Too early, work-day early, and as it was so early, and as I was tired from a really busy Saturday, I decided to go back to sleep. Sleep, however, didn’t really happen, as I was also hungry—really hungry, and that was distracting. More distracting than being hungry, however, was this: I had an Idea.

I have no idea where this idea came from. It hadn’t been stewing in my brain for days (as far as I’m aware). There was no random thought that popped into my head that combined in a flash and a bang with some Thing from the Back Room. And when I say it was an Idea, it wasn’t so much a case of me asking myself, “What if…?” No, this was more like someone just flicked a switch and a movie started playing while someone read a book or script or story out loud. As I lay there, it played out, almost a complete scene, and when I got out of bed and had my coffee mug in hand, I sat down and started to transcribe what I had seen and heard. Over the course of the next three hours or so, I had put down 3100 words, and perhaps it was no surprise that, when I went to my writer’s group that afternoon, it took me nearly an hour of writing time to get down one paragraph (but what a paragraph, if I do say so myself).

Over the course of this week I have managed to double the length of this developing thing, but now I find myself in that weird space of having something started and having no idea what happens next. It’s not uncommon for me to enter into a piece through a scene. The general idea for Powerless had been kicking around in my head for a month before I had The Moment where I knew more or less what story I wanted to tell, and later that day (in my writer’s group, in fact) I had my entry point. Several of my completed manuscripts have come out of scenes I saw/heard in my head.

And now we come to the sticking point. I find myself looking at this 6000+ word entry and asking myself the same question: What’s the story? What am I trying to say? What is the purpose of this piece of writing? What is going to carry me from this beginning to a satisfying end? The scary thing is, I don’t know. I feel a bit like I’ve driven up to a big old house, entered the front door, and am standing in a foyer with a series of doors in front of me. The doors are ajar, allowing me just a glimpse of something beyond, but I have no idea where any of them will lead. It’s the curse of being a Wing Man, of writing without a plan. John Irving (The Cider House Rules; A Prayer for Owen Meany) has said, on multiple occasions, “I write endings first. I write last sentences – sometimes last paragraphs – first. I know where I am going.” One of the members of our new writer’s group does the same. He knows where he’s going, and because he knows where that is, he can easily figure out how to get there. For me? I’m at that stage where I have to “Just Write It” and hope the ending comes into focus as I move forward.

BTW, the last time I did one of these posts was two years ago. I ended up turning that into a three part manuscript that is currently being revised for…something. Cheers!