I have been thinking lately about how stories grow and also about how the fact that they do so in much the same manner as nature should come as no surprise since people frequently talk about the “kernels” from which their story grew: little bits of almost nothing that blossomed into something enormous, alive, and fruitful.
I’ve also been thinking about times when I’ve noticed a storyteller forgot to let their kernel go, kept hold of it until it sits, hard and dead and lifeless, in the middle of a story that no longer has a place for it. You can tell when that happens because of the incongruity. A plot thread, or a scene, or even a mere line juts out at you as being feebler and less refined than the surrounding story, and you wonder why it didn’t get cut.
Well, it was one of those darlings the author couldn’t kill, because it was the very first darling. The one that inspired the whole thing…and how can you sacrifice the very source of your inspiration and let it die? Don’t you need it? Doesn’t it keep its significance?
I would say no to the first question, but yes to the second. Do you need the mold once the brick has hardened? No. Does the mold still matter? Yes. It gave the brick its exact shape, held it in place until it became what it needed to be.
Last year we did a kindergarten science project with my 5 year old. We germinated some kidney beans and watched them grow. I wasn’t expecting much because I don’t have the greenest thumb and we were germinating them inside the house during winter. But, lo, some of them shot up. What was left of the bean (seed) was a dried up papery shell that we had to gently push off of the plant as the shoot grew in a bit of potting soil inside some yogurt containers.
I mean, hey, we got seven whole new kidney beans off of those things!
Anyhow, it reminds me of how, with some of my stories, I pick up that bit of dried up papery shell and realize, it has almost nothing to do with the story any more. To use a slightly more visceral (and perhaps unusual) metaphor…it is a bit like a placenta. An entire organ that exists for one specific purpose, is absolutely vital for growth and survival and is then promptly discarded (or eaten, among many mammals) as soon as the child is able to take its first breath. Once the person–or story–is breathing on its own, the organ is rendered useless.
The truth is, a good story usually eats its seed. You write down a thought, a theme, a scene, a quote. Then the story grows around that, like that coiling shoot around its seed till the seed has been consumed unto almost nothing, It is the food the story nourishes itself on until it begins to thrive on its own in good soil.
You may look back on that inspiring line/scene/aesthetic and find it is no longer strong or mature enough for the story you now hold in your hands.
It also explains why faith is likened to a seed as well. Whether you are are religious or not, you might well have heard of Jesus saying how all you need is faith “like a mustard seed.” And I usually interpret that as meaning “it’s okay if it’s very small.” And I think that’s true. But there may be another layer to it.
You once held up that kernel or seed and said “This!! This is the thing.”
And it is. Yet when it comes to fruition, it looks nothing like that which you held in your hand when you said “this!”
Faith requires so much relinquishing. So too does making any great story or art. You have to bury the seed, yes, but you must even relinquish your fixed idea of the seed, not because it is false, but because it is inadequate. It is not untrue, it is just too small a glimpse of the truth. But with careful tending, it really does grow, and it may grow into something that astonishes you, far surpassing all your expectations and intentions. Some things must die and be buried that they may live and be fruitful. Yes it is a principle of faith and the self, but if anything is really true you will see it borne out everywhere. In life. In nature. And in art.
However.
However. This is not to say that one abandons the seed without care and lets everything goes willy nilly wherever the wind takes it. That may be good enough for dandelion fluff, but more substantial stories require care and cultivation. There are such things as improper tending, poor soil, and parched ground. That is to say, there is such a thing as quite literally ‘losing the plot.’
Inspiration without purpose is chaos, so it is understandable that we sometimes feel we must lock into a trajectory no matter how the terrain changes. It is understandable because it is, in still another sense, true. It is one of those matters held in tension. I think this is why so many people like to discuss the question of whether they’re a “pantser” or a “plotter” because you kind of have to be both.
Dorothy L. Sayers has this lovely illustration in her book “The Mind of the Maker” where she states that art or any human act of creation is fundamentally trinitarian in nature. For those unfamiliar, I’ll give a quick explanation: In Christianity, the doctrine of the Trinity says that God is one, but He is three persons: the Father (God as understood throughout the Tanakh), the Son (Jesus as seen in the Gospels), and the Spirit (as described throughout the whole Bible). Not three gods, but three persons in one God. People have used all sorts of wild illustrations to try and pin this tricky concept down, none of which are adequate, but I think Sayers puts forth one of the better descriptions.
She likens the driving idea of any art to the Father (source, structure, purpose, intent) and likens the physical manifestation of the art to the Son (tangible, visible existence) and the spirit of the work to, well, the Spirit. For instance: “I should like to write a play about grief, loss, and the passage of time.” That is the Father. We put on the play. That is the Son. The audience receives the meaning and emotion of the play, it resonates inside them and may, in fact, bring about an action or behavior in them. The Spirit.
Sayers argues that these three aspects must be in balance in order for the art to be truly good, for we are mere humans, not God, and prone to too much of one thing and too little of another, and any number of other errors. But, for those who believe as I do, we are still made in the image of God and thus are little creators, fathering worlds, incarnating them, and letting it all steep inside someone else’s soul till the meaning takes root and begets thought and action.
This amazes me. To quote, “it is too wonderful for me.” And it is good to feel awe.
It is good to see a story that you could never have quite predicted sprout up out of something small and unassuming. It takes faith and persistence to see it through when it doesn’t look like what you imagined but is, in fact, showing you its true form–far from but inextricably linked to the original germ.
It is good to watch a shoot burst out of a seed and recognize it as a little miracle. Metaphorical or literal. Again, it is so good to feel awe.
J. L. Odom 