When to Let Go of Your Original Inspiration
By Kathryn Craft | March 14, 2019 |
photo adapted / Horia Varlan
Each time Ann Patchett writes a novel, she sets a fresh challenge that will ensure her growth as a writer. At the time she said this—2002—she was explaining her decision to assemble a group of characters that must overcome a peril, even though none of them can speak the same language. That novel became the stirring New York Times bestseller Bel Canto, in which a group of ambassadors gathered in the home of a South American dignitary are held captive during a coup.
The notion of setting a fresh challenge stuck with me, since one of the reasons I find novel writing so appealing is the way it encourages me to engage in lifelong learning and growth. When starting on my current work-in-progress, I challenged myself to write a story in which a secondary character’s presence is felt on every page, even though she doesn’t arrive on scene until the very end.
It worked until it didn’t. After several “so close” passes from publishers, last month I pulled the project to revise. My upcoming one-week residency would provide the perfect opportunity to enact my revision plan, I thought.
Three days in, it was clear I had lost my way.
Thank goodness my friend Tori was on hand to reflect upon my tale of literary woe. She said she thought the only solution was to bring the character on scene so she could drive the conflict. I reminded her that originally, the character’s absence was the conflict. Tori replied, “And thinking that way prompted this whole beautiful novel. But maybe it’s time to let that notion go.”
I saw the truth in this because I’d heard this advice before.
When I was an undergraduate at Miami University (OH), the distinguished choreographer Phyllis Lamhut came to work with our dance company. A lit cigarette dangled from her lips—in the dance studio!— while she watched our work. After barking out a harsh critique of my graduate assistant’s piece, whose work I adored, it was time to show her mine.
I immediately regretted performing in my own piece, which gave her two ways to find me incompetent. My knees shook as the music began. The concept I was playing with was about space as a lone dancer’s partner (a concept I would revisit in my debut novel, The Art of Falling). As I moved, I could feel the heat of Lamhut’s glare on my skin.
Afterward, she asked me one question. “Why did you pick this music?” I told her it was my original inspiration. I was a biology major, and listening to “A Very Cellular Song” by The Incredible String Band had reminded me of the way cytoplasmic pressures within an amoeba propelled its movement, an effect I tried to recreate. The slow waltz tempo provided my movement’s rhythmic structure.
Lamhut walked over to the record player (yes—this was the 70s) and replaced my music with a piece by John Cage (something similar to this). Rather than provide a melody, the random pings and pops seemed to define the silence—the space—within the music. She told me to repeat my performance to this soundscape, keeping the original rhythm in my mind as I moved.
The increased power of the piece raised the hair on my arms. When I finished, the other dancers burst into spontaneous applause. That’s when Lamhut said, “There often comes a time when you need to let go of your original inspiration.”
During my residency at North Carolina’s Weymouth Center for the Arts last week, as I struggled to wrestle down this story, I felt mad creative skills echo around me: the spirits of former guests F. Scott Fitzgerald and his storied editor Max Perkins; the memory of Ann Patchett’s personal challenge facing off against advice carried forward from crusty Phyllis Lamhut; a conversation between Tori and me informing the ongoing conversation between my inner writer and inner editor.
My original inspiration was no longer serving me. It was time to thank it for getting me this far—and let it go.
I threw out my first three days’ work and barreled forward during the final three days of my residency, impelled by the new energy my formerly-in-absence character brought to the work.
The time for writing from my prompt was over. My work-in-progress was ready to grow into its fullness.
Have you ever had to let your original inspiration go, in order to let your work evolve? Have you ever had to screw up the courage to jettison work that led you into a blind alley, only to save it by retracing your missteps? Let’s talk about lessons learned from writing gone wrong.
[coffee]
Kathryn Craft (she/her) is the author of two novels from Sourcebooks, The Art of Falling and The Far End of Happy. Her forthcoming book, Crafting Story Movement: Techniques to Engage Readers and Drive Your Novel Forward, draws from decades of experience as both a story consultant and a movement specialist/dance critic. Learn more on Kathryn’s website.
I spent about six months working/not working on a novel that I wanted so badly to make happen. I still believe in the premise, I’m just not sure I’m the writer, or the writer right now, to move it forward. It wasn’t until I was struck by a story premise while on a walk and turned immediately to embrace it that I realized I’d been… not wasting my time, per se, but perhaps saving myself for the thing I was meant to focus on. I haven’t given up entirely on the other novel, but it’s tucked away for another time, another frame of mind.
I believe, even when it comes to abandoned projects, that it’s all worthwhile- we carry parts of those shelved stories, be it characters, themes, research, dreams, into new work. We’re continually building on one idea to reach the next.
Beautiful, thoughtful post, Kathryn. Thank you!
You raise so many lovely concepts here, Julie. “Saving myself for the thing I was meant to focus on.” That resonates with me, as I think I was doing that with a project while waiting four months for this one to return to me.
As for all writing being worthwhile, I couldn’t agree more. At first I was so bummed to have lost those first three days of my residency—I so desperately wanted them back, once the change in approach produced the kind of rocket fuel I needed. But reality is, the focus the residency allowed meant that I “only” lost three days, as opposed to three weeks or months or even years. (Isn’t it funny how writing novels changes our perception of time?) And I was able to pack that rocket fuel and bring it home—a huge win!
Finally: “We’re continually building on one idea to reach the next.” Yes. Yes. Amen.
Kathryn, I really enjoyed your essay, esp. the scene in the dance studio. At first I thought, of course, it makes sense to let go of the original inspiration as you evolve, simply because I’ve gone through multiple iterations of a work, sometimes drastically changing the look of a picture book, the time period in a historical, even ditching main characters in magazine stories. But I realized after thinking further that the kernel of original inspiration has always remained. Interesting to think about this.
Of course the time may NOT come when you need to let go of your original inspiration, Vijaya, especially if your novel’s inception was one of those divine moments when a story arrives in mind almost fully formed. That happens! But I’ve also watched editing clients cling to their original concept with a rigor-mortis-like grip, which well suggested when they’d be willing to let it go. The answer is both easy and hard: let it go if your work has evolved, and the original inspiration no longer serves you.
Great post! It takes courage to serve the project, rather than a fixed vision. It’s a choice that our society doesn’t often reward. We’re taught that strength means “sticking to it,” “buckling down,” “making it work.” But it takes guts to allow a new vision to blossom. Thank you for this reminder!
Oh wow this is so true, in marriage, employment, exercise…and writing a novel. Thanks for blowing the issue wide open, Teri. We have one life! Letting go of what’s holding us back is as important as looking to the future.
Thank you–both Kathryn and Teri–for sharing your thoughts. You’ve both encouraged me about my decision to go forth on a novel burning within me to be written, yet would require me to juggle things writing-wise, as well as plot wise (thus, letting go of my original impetus of the story).
I’m newly excited, again!!
Elaine I hear you, because now that I’m taking this new tack, I’m completely reinvigorated to my writing as well! If we are impelled to return to our work each day with fresh enthusiasm, that energy has to translate into something good for the story, right? Have fun and report back!
I’m in conversation with one of my novels about this topic of releasing original inspiration. My original idea is to have a King Lear-type character that doesn’t really change. All the characters around him change or are impacted by my main character’s actions. I’m trying to avoid letting go of my original inspiration, but I think the story will be better served if I let my main character grow or be changed by the events to the story.
It is always good to be nudged into uncomfortable territory in our writing – that’s where there is much to lean.
Thank you for giving me that nudge, Tori, and I hope you figure out the best path for your own novel. Why are we always so smart about other writers’ work, yet often falter when applying that same wisdom to our own? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again here: Thank god for my writer friends!
Ah, Kathryn, so glad you have found a way back to your story even if it is going in a different direction than you originally planned. As you know, my own first novel has gone through two major re-inventions to where it is today, in final revision before launching into the world. You were instrumental in helping me keep the faith through its various phases so I’m glad Tori was there for you. Best of luck and thanks for sharing with others the journey you’ve gone through.
It’s a bit of a paradox for me, embracing two truths: that our initial creative spark is sacred and should therefore be honored ~AND~ the notion that it may only be a jumping off point that can one day be left behind. Glad you kept the faith and are finding a story you love, Maggie. Look forward to seeing you at the Chicago Writers Association Conference this weekend!
About 2 1/2 years ago I was six months into a WIP. I was struggling even though I loved the story. I had the full support of my agent that I’d figure it out. “Just keep writing” was the mantra — kind of like Dori from the Disney films who “just keeps swimming.” I had my aha moment one morning and everything changed. The inspiration for the story was the journey of young woman who learned about life through her grandmother’s hidden stories. I called my agent. “I know what the problem is,” I said. “It’s not Hannah’s story. It’s her grandmother’s.” And she said “You’re right.” Telling people it took me six months to find the right main character for my next book usually results in groans — but it also resulted in a publishing contract. I’m sure that’s where this will lead for you too, Kathryn.
No groans from me, Amy, just a smile of recognition. We arrive at stories along some pretty twisty roads sometimes, don’t we? But finally feeling that “click” that tells you it’s arrived is a beautiful thing, and well worth working toward. Glad your road straightened before you. Following right behind!
Kathryn, this could not be a better description of the writing process and how an original inspiration can change as it ripens and if we let it. That happened with my WIP, whose first concept bugged me for years and constantly fed my guilt about not getting on with it. Not long ago I realized that the real story was hidden in the original, which was already sinking under its own weight and clearly could never be written in my lifetime. Having recognized the real story, I’m off and running. If only that BFO (blinding fact of the obvious) had occurred years ago, I’d be finished by now. But those are the breaks, perhaps. I will not allow myself to think those years were wasted; they were ripening time.
Yes, Anna! Your description of the process is equally powerful. The real story hidden within, a tender bud shucking off dying expectations, a belated BFO that has you off and running—we writers live for this! I’m in for the whole crazy ride. Glad you are, too!
Wow, this is a powerful concept – thanks for poking us with it. I wonder if this is the sort of problem that is easier to identify in other people’s work than in your own? I’ve often encountered writers who were so doggedly attached to some core principle of their story that they were unwilling to make changes that could have drastically improved their manuscript. But this makes me wonder if I’ve been guilty of the same problem myself.
I think a key thing to keep in mind is that even if we do let go of that original inspirational component, the fact is that it DID inspire us to get this story started. So it’s not a loss – not at all.
Looking forward to seeing you at UnCon 2019!
Yes, if you think of “original inspiration” as prompt, it can be easier to let go. In my case, I used all its fuel while lifting from the launch pad and could now jettison it.
As far as solutions go, I absolutely think it helps to talk things over with a friend or developmental editor. But as you point out, identifying this as the problem can be tricky.
My emotional state triggered my need to do so. The feedback I was getting resonated with me, but trying to enact my revision plan kept leading me further astray as opposed to into greater structural alignment. It didn’t seem possible to tell the story I wanted to tell without that secondary character on scene, which violated the conditions of my inspiration. I had lost all faith in a story I’d loved, and in my ability to tell it. So I broke the convention, which was just for me anyway, and BAM! Off and running.
SEE YOU IN SALEM!
If you ever feel something like that, you may be holding onto a harmful notion a little too tightly.
Always enjoy your posts Kathryn. I’m a bit backwards in that my WIP has morphed many, many times, but the core inspiration has remained the same.
It’s an alternate history set in early 16th c Scotland and is for many reasons a huge and daunting project. But it’s been bubbling away in my writerly brain for 10 years.
I’ve put it aside many times to work on other things but I must tell this story. I think I may have reached a point where I know enough of the history, and have mastered the writing skills I need, to see it through to THE END in the next few months.
Food for thought though, and I will be considering this as I dive into rewrites. : )
I can absolutely so how that can happen, Sheri, as you “try on” various ways of structuring the tale.
To be clearer, I am still writing the same story, I’m just not holding myself to the device, or challenge, that got it rolling in the first place.By allowing myself to break my own “rule,” I found myself better able to tell the story I wanted to tell.
And I hear you about the need to power up your writing skills to equal the story challenges. It took me eight years to learn how to tell my debut novel. In an era where social media allows exposure that will last you all of one hot minute, the pressure to churn out a book a year is intense. It’s not for every creative writer, that’s for sure. As my friend Juilene Osbourne McKnight used to say, “Your debut novel is the only one you’ll write that’s between you and God. Enjoy the journey.”
Wow, I loved hearing the backstory about the new direction of your novel, Kathryn! I am absolutely fascinated and can’t wait to hear about how it’s going. Isn’t the world a better place with wise and compassionate writing friends?! I sure think so :)
Since you know both Tori and I, I’m sure you can imagine the sparks flying in the kitchen the night I lost my way. Mostly it went like this: I flounder, she challenges me, I stare into space as I try to reimagine everything I’d ever thought about how the book would work. Then wine was consumed. But wow, what a turning point! Great to see you today, Dana!
Others have said much of what I would have said, so I’ll only add that you are such an incredible role model, Kathryn, for your courage and candor and generosity, as you share your own journey.
Aw, thank you, Barbara! I like to keep an upbeat public face, because most days I’m an upbeat kind of woman. But the writing challenges are real, and the journey isn’t straight up the mountain, considering each project has its own peaks and valleys and flesh-eating scree, so I don’t see much in point trying to pretend otherwise. :)
Oh yes, I get this. In my current WIP I had to give up an idea I loved: an annual Ferris Wheel ride, during which a boy would learn from future-seeing girl one thing that would happen to him in the coming year.
Bad idea. It led me to a schematic year-by-year plot that really wasn’t telling the genuine story. The Ferris Wheel survives but what happens on it now enacts a relationship rather than making yearbooks.
That said, the original inspiration got me there so I don’t regard it as useless.
Yes Benjamin, that is EXACTLY the type of situation I’m talking about. “It led me to a schematic year-by-year plot that really wasn’t telling the genuine story.” Glad you figured out that while the Ferris Wheel might have been going round, it wasn’t going anywhere helpful to your novel (great metaphor, though!).
It used to be I could let nothing go – I held on for all dear life. But now I can cut wide swaths of words, paragraphs, pages, even entire almost-novels from my life and feel nary a wince—maybe a little, but not much.
It’s a freeing thing!
I’m like you, Kathryn (could it be the name?). I have very few darlings. My husband marvels at my ability to hack away at my own work. But the reader will never know those lovely words were there, and my manuscript is full of many other lovely words, so they will not be missed. Especially when their loss strengthens the manuscript in a way I can immediately see. When it comes to letting go of original inspiration, however, I can apparently be more blind.
In my first (still unfinished but not abandoned) novel, EVERYONE in my critique group hated the protagonist.
“Fire that guy,” they said.
“His friend Jerome should be your protagonist,” they said.
I blew off the advice because I knew Jerome was gonna get killed. You can’t have a dead hero, right?
Four years later, >poof!< An epiphany. I recalled reading something about the hero dying, and a protege taking up the hero's mantle.
Jerome can start out as the protagonist and mentor First Guy while he's investigating the antagonist. Then after he gets killed, First Guy takes up the mantle, mans up and takes decisive action. By this time, I already had his arc develop to where he was way less obnoxious.
I haven't written it yet because I'm up to my neck in another project, but I really think this will work!
Sounds like it would work to me, Janice. Cool idea!
The Lamhut story made me smile. Long gone are the days when a dancer’s break consisted of wolfing down the second half of a dry buttered hard roll and lukewarm coffee so you still had time to suck down an inch or two of nicotine, before going back to rehearsal. Still with us…letting go of an idea that no longer serves. Dealing with that now. It’s holding onto to my ankle like a kid off to his first swim lesson. Sometimes you just have to disengage.Gulp.
Sometimes that first inspiration doesn’t have to be let go, but rather reworked so it can be a story. Inspiration gives ideas and ideas aren’t stories, ideas need to be developed.
I wrote and published a short story in 1977 that I wanted to make into a novel. I never lost that vision but I knew it wasn’t ripe for a novel. In recent years I wrote 40 short stories and 4 novels to teach myself how to write that big book novel which that original inspiration demanded. I did it,too. The book is different than my first concept because story comes first. I learned what works, how story must be and how concept must be molded into story. I developed this upcoming work out of that old spark. That first inspiration made me write and it never failed me: It drove me to write better, drove me to find a way. There isn’t much left of that original short story in the novel. What came out of that first one was ongoing inspiration and an enabling fire. I used the embers of that burned down tale to ignite this bigger, better work. Energy can’t be destroyed only reconfigured.