“My personal quest, as well as what I want for my viewers, is to seek out that thrill of escaping into an unknown land. I want to lead them into my landscapes with just the hint of a trail, the odd shrub, or a far-off village — and let them fill in the rest for themselves.” — Canadian artist Raymond Quenneville, Visions of an Unknown Land
I am the least mystical writer I know. If there were a Mystical Writers organization, I’d be crossed off the membership eligibility list. When you look at mystical in the dictionary, one of the definitions is not Lynn Viehl. Practical, yes; honest, try to be; hopeful, of course. But mystical? Not in this or any other lifetime, pal.
I know mystical writers. They’re those tall, willowy graceful creatures who float around in an impenetrable bubble of otherworldliness. When you sit next to them at luncheons and they speak about their writing, you have no idea what they’re talking about (but if you listen long enough I think you do get a little contact high.) I’m too short, too klutzy and far too hard-headed to ever join their club; the only time I float is when you toss me in a pool.
Yet when I read the above quote, which begins an article written by the artist for the Oct/Nov ‘09 issue of International Artist magazine, I knew immediately what he meant. I totally got it.
As much as I am compelled to keep both feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds, I share Raymond Quenneville’s work ethic. I’m on the same quest. I want to create the unknown for me and my readers, whether it be a character or conversation or a conflict, or an entire universe filled with them. This is the work, in a nutshell: Here’s the unknown. I built it for us. Go, on, check it out.
So I might be a little mystical. Maybe. In my left big toe or something.
For me writing is more an organized, finite process than a nebulous mystical experience, so I’ve always shied away from talking about what cannot be organized or processed. I’m not comfortable with behaving like a spontaneous artist because I’m not — except when I write dialogue.
Dialogue is the one element in any story I write that I never plan or plot out or otherwise mess with. My dialogue is always spontaneous; basically whatever comes to mind as I’m working on the scene. This doesn’t sound all that weird, unless you consider that I plan and plot out everything, in painstaking detail, well in advance of writing a single word of the story. In fact, I can’t write a story unless I know in advance everything that is going to happen in it. Except dialogue.
For me, dialogue is a mystical thing because it comes out of nowhere through no deliberate action of mine at all. As I’m working and I need dialogue, the lines pop in my head and I write them down. Occasionally when I’m thinking about a scene I sometimes hear bits and pieces of conversation, but I don’t listen to them. For me, dialogue happens on the page during the writing process. Which makes absolutely no sense to me at all, and you know what? It works fine, so I don’t care. I don’t try to figure it out because there is no explanation for it. If there is one, I don’t want to know it. Knowing would probably jinx it.
In your writing work, there are probably dozens of methods and processes and things you do in a certain fashion to obtain an expected outcome. We’re taught these things in school and at workshops; we’re told them by our colleagues and writer friends; we read them in how-to books. We often modify them to suit our needs. Even the most dedicated organic writer has something they do that is part of their non-process process, even if it’s as simple as putting on a favorite CD, making a cup of a certain herbal tea, or wearing bunny slippers while writing. Personal rituals are often as important to some writers as plotting a detailed outline is to others.
In our quest to improve our craft and become better writers, we regiment ourselves to refine and rely on methods and processes. As long as this works for you I think this is wise; most of us can’t build a story without first sketching out some floor plans or drawing up some prints. But no matter how often I recommend planning and organization, I also believe in protecting whatever mysticality is involved in the writing life. If there is such a thing as a muse or a well, this is what comes from it. Or maybe it’s just the wiring between the mind and the soul.
The last line of Raymond Quenneville’s article also found an echo in me: “I search for a feeling of peacefulness and light that will draw the viewer into a state of well-being.” As a storyteller I search for many feelings too, and work to share them with my readers. If that means not exactly understanding how I do that, then I think it’s a fair trade.
Related Links:
Spiritual Writing: Inciting Inspiration by Candy Arrington
Plato’s Cosmology & the Mystical Experience by Mark Bancroft
Defining The Mystical Energy by John L. Waters
