Throw it all away

At least for now

”Putting a book together is interesting and exhilarating. … It is life at its most free.” — Annie Dillard

About 6 months ago, I had an itch. The kind that makes words pour out of you onto the page, like a bursting dam. Sorry, beavers. I listened to audio recordings of my grandfather reminiscing about his childhood and his father. I started scratching. The ambition grew by day, faster than I was able to write: essay, short story, novella.

I spent the last 5 months working on the story of my great grandfather – a man that turned into the Hulk after a few drinks – resisting Communist collectivisation in 1950s Romania. 20k words written, dozens of hours spent at the British Library and in online archives. Let’s say that I’ve learnt a lot. I had completed a first rough draft and friends laughed out loud when reading. Feedback prompted a rewrite with new points of view after taking a step back for a few weeks. It was all moving forward. I was getting ready to email agents.

As swiftly as I’d begun, I was stuck. The story that I thought was there wasn’t revealing itself. The characters refused to talk and act in authentic ways. I was paralysed on sentences and paragraphs that, once completed, felt like they were going nowhere. I questioned every single one of my characters: what are you doing here? The manuscript contained three stories, entangled like spaghetti, each with its own demands and pulling in different directions. Which one are you trying to write? Cut!

Nothing new to a veteran, but the end of the world to this newbie. The sunken cost weighed heavily. I didn’t get the license to navigate these emotions. Do I get back to work or throw it all away?

A few questions helped. What is this about? My great grandfather who I’ve never met? Communist crimes? Headstrong resistance? My relationship with my grandfather? Why am I even writing this? I had to go back to the itch. I re-read the entire manuscript, ignored the plot and highlighted the bits of writing that I was proud of, the ones that made me smile. I realised that I was, perhaps, resting too comfortably on my laurels. My previous book project was a piece of historical fiction – my first book, not perfect, I’d re-do it, but I was proud of it and it served as a compass for this one. It turned into a blueprint. After all, if I had done it before, I can do it again, right?

Less is more, we’re told. Writing does sometimes feel like chipping away at a huge block of marble to find David. But how do you find that block in the first place?

I threw it all away, the bath water down the drain. No baby was hurt in the process. But starting afresh, with the best bits highlighted and a blank page, I landed on a smaller block of marble. A meager 2.5k words, if that even matters. I chipped away, forgot all about conflict, plot, the three acts – not that they are useless. My guide was the why: to share how, in searching for my origins, I mended my relationship with my grandfather.

We are free to write about anything we’d like. It’s a free-for-all: choose the length, the scope, the tone, the plot. We can shift our attention in a million ways, focus on endless details, zoom in or zoom out. We’re at the mercy of our own freedom. That’s the beauty of it. The constraints that we unconsciously set upon ourselves shape the work. In my case, the “historical fiction novella” expectation sent me down a long road, one that I wasn’t ready for yet. I guess with great freedom comes, uh, great confusion?

My grandfather passed away while I was in the middle of it all. Not to be grim, but I’ve had to bury the ideas alongside him, at least temporarily. He instilled in me the love of stories and I wanted to honour that. All the best thoughts, sentences and imagery needed a home, at least temporarily. I couldn’t kick them out, it’s cold out there. The address is The Grape Patch, if you want to pop by.