“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
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Oh, I don’t need somebody mystical enough to give me a contact high.
Just transport m in a book, that’s all I ask. Well, that… and the next Stardoc book. 
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I kind of like mystical male writers; they all remind me of someone like Michael Boulton. On Diazepam and mushrooms.
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Diazepam and mushrooms. Okay, now THAT is scary.
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I don’t do much planning when I write, but I don’t think anything about my process is mystical, per se. It’s all coming from somewhere in my brain, even if I can’t place the exact spot. Sometimes the spontaneity works for me, other times I look back at it and wonder what the heck I was thinking. I do think your lack of planning in dialogue must be what makes it seem so real. Conversations aren’t planned, and your dialogue makes me feel like I’m eavesdropping on a real conversation.
I love the quote. That’s what I feel about my writing. I want to lead readers into a different, unknown land and let them fill in the rest for themselves. =o)
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Thanks, B. About the only thing I do to study ways of improving dilaogue is by listening to people having conversations in real life and paying attention both to word choices and rhythms. I think that has something to do with why I write dialogue the way I do, too — maybe I’m subconsciously imprinting everything I hear. Or maybe it’s an ongoing gift from the Dialogue Fairy. I’m just happy it works.
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I think you kind of have to have one foot in the mystical and one in the practical. Part of writing for me is recognizing that I’m not in control of everything.
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Part of writing for me is recognizing that I’m not in control of everything.
That’s perfect. And I need to tattoo that somewhere on my body.
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I have a question. Since you do plan out everything so meticulously, how are you able to manage to get your dialogue to flow in such a way as to take the characters from Point A at the beginning of a scene/conversation to arrive at Point B where you need them to be at the very end of the scene? If I let my dialogue free flow, I tend to wander aimlessly, in risk of ending up with those “Hey, Bob, how’s your bagel?” conversations. I need a way to keep my people on task when they talk.
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Excellent question. I have no idea.
No, seriously, I think what I do that keeps my characters on task is decide before I get into the scene what I want to accomplish with it.
Example from my notes on my NaNoWriMo novel:
Dredmore intercepts Kit on the Hill and tries to discover what she was doing there before he warns her to stay away from Lady Diana.
This is the first time in the story I introduce Dredmore as a character, and it’s also the first time the protagonist has dialogue with him. So going into the scene I knew the dialogue would have to reflect the characters’ existing relationship, demonstrate some of the tensions between them and also serve the purpose of the scene, which is to get Dredmore involved in the main conflict. It also introduces the subplot conflict, which is Dredmore’s pursuit of Kit (note: he is the only one who calls her by her given name, Charmaine.)
Here’s the scene I wrote, and while I was writing it my only thoughts were to keep the dialogue as tight and as true to the characters as possible. I pared down a lot of what I thought of to get the right clashing tone (you’ll have to decide if I accomplished that.)
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While some of my writing may be considered a tad mystical — I have been known to run into an odd encounter or two — like you, I prefer to work from an outline.
But, to start, I visually see the whole story like a movie in my head and hear most of the conversations before I ever get the outline on paper.
I wonder, if on some level, you may be doing the same thing, and that’s why the “unplanned” dialog has a way of working itself out.
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Visualization is an important part of my process, too — I always try to put together a movie of the story in my head — but I don’t hear dialogue at that point. I know the characters are talking, but my mute button is on.
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I don’t thinkI’m a mystical writer…but I do think I’m an organic one. LOL As in, In my mind I usually have a loose plan to start with, but I don’t write down my plots or ideas, and they tend to shift and grow as I write.
And, I too, think Dialogue is of huge importance. Thanks for the post!
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That’s probably the best definition of an organic writer I’ve ever read, Sasha. I’m going to obsessively quote you on this one.
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Okay, writing is all about the mystical for me, the trance that I slip into when the pen moves on the paper. I don’t plan much at all – trying to learn more plotting from you and Kait, truth be told. But the dialogue, its what comes FIRST for me. I hear the conversations and have to track the actions back and forward from them! Wild, isn’t it, how so many of us approach the same thing from so many different directions?
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Wild, isn’t it, how so many of us approach the same thing from so many different directions?
So much so that sometimes it makes me wonder how we can all be doing the same thing.
But just as artists use many different types of paint, brushes, techniques and even surfaces to create paintings, so do writers when it comes to composing story. 
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Sort of agreeing with Sasha (I think).
Sometimes the dialogue comes as you described, and sometimes it’s a character I hadn’t thought of who suddenly appears, and they’re just amazing.
But I’m most mystified by the occasional turn/twist/change in a story I’d pretty well thought out when it takes on a new, better direction mid-writing–and I know durn well it’s a helluva lot better than anything I could’ve imagined.
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But I’m most mystified by the occasional turn/twist/change in a story I’d pretty well thought out when it takes on a new, better direction mid-writing–and I know durn well it’s a helluva lot better than anything I could’ve imagined.
I think there are unknown or unmapped parts of us that get involved in the work, and sometimes they take charge. Some people think it’s the subconscious (I lean toward this) and others believe it’s of divine origin. Sometimes it annoys me not to be able to use that unknown ability whenever I want, but if it were quantifiable or controllable I’d have to sacrifice the wonder involved in seeing it at work.