For a number of years a piece of work has been sitting in my digital graveyard.
No, that’s not quite true.
The work had not been formally laid to rest, rather it was receiving prolonged treatment for conditions associated with creative coma. The patient was not the unfinished novel, it was the half-baked writer. I simply reached a point when the writing would go no further.
I have visited the work on many occasions, re-reading and re-thinking, but to no avail. It was simply stuck in an area of narrative that offered up no promise of recovery. No amount of flowers or chocolates were going to bring it back.
Yesterday, I decided to take it out of its bed, away from the ward, and into the light of the garden. I was planning a transplant of sorts. So, I set about writing what I thought would be a bridge between the past, the present, and the future. I don’t believe in the future, it’s just an extention of the past and a continuation of the present. But I wrote anyway.
The upshot was that I wrote and that stood up quite well. It was able to move along the narrative without falling into the tedious ‘chain of events’ approach. The novel had to be about something other than mere sequences in which the protagonist manages to escape the inescapeable. She had spent too much time on life-support for such a solution.
And so had the writer.