So how does one get those flashes of inspiration called ‘creativity’? The non-flashy answer is: creativity is not an abstract or independent entity, but a composite of information and emotion, a critical node.
My friend Jay has been writing a book for over ten years. After retiring from a very successful career as a journalist, he began a series of short stories and narratives based on his experiences traveling across America with his old friend Peter. Over time, those stories gelled into a delightful travel memoir, what today we call “narrative non-fiction.” But he had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right about his book.
So, he turned to other writing, tending his vast vegetable garden, planting apple trees, and other pursuits. I was the happy beneficiary of one of these. Jay took the time to offer detailed feedback on my novel, a historical mystery, with fantastic results. My story was based on the real still-unsolved events in the Parsi community called The Rajabai Tower Tragedy, where two young women fell to their deaths from the Bombay University Clocktower. My detective was an Anglo-Indian officer who invalids out of the army and is moved by the widower Adi Framji’s words, “They are gone but I remain.” A mystery must turn constantly, subverting expectations, overturning tropes, and setting up plans, some of which succeed, and others fail. Above all, it must move inexorably toward an ending that the reader instinctively knows and dreads. And still, it must surprise!
Week after week my critique group reacted to my chapters. Jay’s input was always perceptive and revealed the strengths and weaknesses of my writing. Then he offered feedback on the entire manuscript!
I took his words to heart and that of two beta readers. A year later, Murder in Old Bombay won Mystery Writers of America and Audiofile awards and was an Edgar and Anthony finalist! Jay then offered developmental edits on my sequel Peril at the Exposition and my third book in the series The Spanish Diplomat’s Secret, coming out this September. His perceptive input elevated my writing and my craft in ways I cannot begin to describe. But what about his travel memoir?
Over the years he added and subtracted, refined some pieces, then hacked away chapters and paragraphs that seemed to duplicate sentiments. And still, he wasn’t satisfied. Insight is a peculiar bird: it doesn’t always give you answers. Sometimes it gives you questions.
Many authors have said writing is about “applying butt to chair” (the method we writers call: sit down and write, dammit.) Stephen King’s oft-quoted homily is “Read a lot, write a lot”, but that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what it takes to create a meaningful story.
I prefer Hemingway’s notion. He famously said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” That feels closer to the truth. If it’s worth writing, then it must come from deep within. “Creative” writing feels more like dredging and mining than a cerebral activity.
So how does one get those flashes of inspiration that are called “creativity?” It’s a term that can be explained with a story rather than a phrase. In answer, I will return to Jay’s quandary.
Jay is a pantster. Writers are usually classified as “plotters”—those who build an outline before they draft a novel, or “pantsters”—those who write “by the seat of their pants,” building the story as they go. Most writers fall somewhere between these two poles, using and modifying outlines as needed. As a plotter myself, I build outlines that summarize each chapter in one sentence. I love having an outline, though my stories can weave away from them—detours that are often the most exciting or emotional chapters!
So, when I offered to provide developmental edits for Jay’s memoir, the first thing I did was create an outline. To see the large-scale “shape” of the book, nothing beats an outline. It shows the progression of the larger narrative, the ebbs, and flows, where the story sagged or felt repetitive, or moved too quickly. The resulting insight was this: Jay’s book needed a satisfying close. We discussed some ways that it could end, and Jay said he would mull them over.
“So why don’t you publish it,” I asked him, some months later.
“I want it to be a good book,” he said simply.
“It’s already that good,” I replied.
However, the old nagging feeling still lingered within him. And there it stood, for another year.
Together, Jay and I offered consultation for two budding writers and provided developmental edits. Reviewing their work strengthened my own ability to see what was needed. Why did a paragraph feel untethered, and confusing? Ah, it needed a transition from the previous or a conclusion that moved to the next. Why did a dialog section leave me puzzled or uninterested? Ah, I wanted to know what the main character was feeling, and how it landed! Reading Jay’s feedback helped me see what I had missed in their work. This sparked additional ideas for me to offer. Creativity is not an abstract or independent entity, but a composite of information and emotion, a critical node.
Recently, years after I had worked on Jay’s manuscript, I contemplated his ambition for this memoir against how I saw the book already, both profound and engaging.
How to bridge these two? All at once, I glimpsed the shape of the missing piece: It needed him to spell out at the end, the point of the long and varied travels described. As we spoke about his relationship with Peter, his travel partner, and the reason for those seemingly meandering (but delightful) trips, an answer glimmered in my peripheral vision.
“It’s not acquisition, checking off a list of places you saw together,” I said, feeling my way. “It’s a search! Something the narrator was looking for. The travels are a metaphor for life, aren’t they?”
He didn’t answer, so I went on. “A search for what? That’s the question you need to answer at the end.” And then it hit me.
On the previous day, I’d been speaking with my 92-year-old father. We discussed the spring weather—still too cold for him in the Midwest and other usual topics.
Suddenly he said, “I don’t know why I’m still here! I’m ninety-two, and all my friends are dead. Why am I still around?”
His question shocked me to silence. Then I said, “But Dad, I’m still here! We’re here! We get to have you around for one more day. That’s why you’re still here!”
He chuckled in surprise. Perhaps he hadn’t expected an answer to his rhetorical question.
So, I narrated this to Jay, and said, “That’s an answer to the search, isn’t it? You went on this seemingly aimless trip with your friend because of the connection, the relationship. Isn’t that what your story is really about?”
Jay said, “That’s something. I have an idea how to write the end.”
I will not know how his book ends until he writes that final chapter. I’ll have to wait until he revises and perfects it enough to share it with me. His reflections will excavate for truth, couched in the calm, vivid voice that is his very own. It will be glorious.
And that’s creativity.
Lead picture courtesy: jennygarrett.global
