Deadline

A new making in the novel

Today, one year ago, I published my first essay on this platform, leading to an immediate, more than fifty percent increase in subscribers. I went from six to ten committed readers.

A one-year anniversary often leads to a look back. A boast post. A number dunk. And while I sure am proud of my commitment to churn out an original essay every single week (except for that one in August which was a day late and broke my streak unglamorously) and having fifty plus posts in the archives of the Spheres, ....it is very unlike me to spend more than a few sentences on what I did last week. Let alone the ancient history that is last year. Remoistening the spilled milk with a wet tongue on the threadbare carpet to check its taste. That's how it feels to go in reverse.

I know it would be so much better for my writing career to present you with a top ten of all time Bertusian favourites during a buzzing party with live music, finger foods, and famous friends toasting the brilliant achievements in luscious quotes plucked from my ever-growing oeuvre. But I don't have time.

I am writing. The writing is amming me, might be more accurate, more how it feels to have the muse chasing me, trying to bite my heels if I don't move quickly enough to her liking. A new novel is in the making. A new making is in the novel.

Allow me to explain. Normally, when I write, I try to plug in. To go through that inner door to the other realm. That may sound iffy, or otherworldly, or even esoteric, but it is a simple move. I shut down most of the input, close the hatches and listen inward. Beneath the surface of daily distraction lies the ongoing. The big serial. The office of unwritten books. I attempt to channel what is there into words. Imagery with sound and smell and weight.

This way of working opposes the other kind. The type that decides and plans what to write about. The orderly fashion of schedules and strategies and thinking ahead.

It might be surprising to share that I never cared much for storytelling techniques. It might be completely obvious to a skilled writer reading my work that I never bother to apply the rules of structure.

But for whatever dark reason, it is how I work. I know intuitively. I choose to lean on my intuition first. Which says nothing about the quality of my choices. I have a deep trust in the truth of the inner realm, but to get that same depth on paper unscathed is a whole ‘nother story.

But yes, a new making is in this novel.

These last months, I have been binge-watching writing advice. Plot structure. How to construct a story. Screenwriting style. Like the entertainment industry plans where you laugh or tear up, lures you into empathy or pinches your synapses in the exact spot at the very second it says so in the script. The American way to tell stories.

I have never done that. I just wrote. Allowed what came out to have the shape it wanted to have. Which was strange at times. Not always as readable as I would like it to be.

I think it is the influence of Substack that made me wonder. What if, honouring beginner's mind, I would brutally turn my ship around and hunt the whale? My whale. The big one.

What if, for a change, I would construct a story?

The muse has responded. She said, okay, how about this idea? This little kernel would be willing to be moulded into a three-part structure, and be close-knit, and urgent as hell to get out.

I sort of let her know I was ready.

A dangerous thing to do. The amount of space she takes up since has doubled instantly. And is still growing. Pushing me to write.

Such an arrogant thing to even suggest this story is somehow important to get out there. That it has great value for anyone but me. But it sure feels like that. It feels urgent. Timely. It asks me to go deep in a way that scares the shit out of me. But it also is clear that if I do not listen now, there is no reason I ever would. So, once again, I spend the larger part of my waking hours on a fictitious narrative. And this time I will submit it to a classic build. To inciting incidents, progressive complications and objects of desire that really hit home, that maximise the impact, that deliver the punch of the tale. It will grab you by the sensitive bits, and you'll be surprised by how much you had longed for that squeeze.

Substack with its build in submission to produce regularly has taught me I long to be pushed. I need the pressure, or I will sneak out and procrastinate. I need the tour-dates, the setlist, the planned wedding, or else my creative mind will find convincing excuses to crawl out from underneath the responsibility.

For a long time, I thought the pressure came from outside. Resulting in me fighting all forms of external structure. I am a master at sabotage.

But lately, I have started to see, it all too often was me sabotaging my own efforts. And it was also me blowing the deadlines out of proportion. Putting the bar at such a height that failure was inevitable. Or placing it so low that it made the achievement of no value.

There is one deadline that puts it all back into perspective though. It is the question that slowly gains weight over the years; how much time do I have left?

Now there's a proper deadline.

I am in no hurry to get there. But suddenly some amount of planning doesn't seem all that awful any more. I want to say what I have to say without wasting anyone's time. I want my insights to be impactful. My visions to be clear roadsigns to the joy of being here without ignoring the deep challenges we all face.

I promise to be the best writer I can possibly be. This first year was a great start. But I am looking forward more than I am looking back. We will find a way....

This image has been the homescreen of my ‘writing Ipad’ for years. It was a first edition Ipad and it still works fine for typing after fourteen years. In several ways it was better than the much newer model I now have. But…the ‘ancient device’ is no longer ‘supported’. Combine that expiration date with the latest crunching Apple ad and you have the seed of my new novel….don't tell anyone….sshhhh….

And this is the point where you hit like, or let me know in the comments that you are alive, have read the above and utterly disagree with me, point out wrong grammarings, send me some love, or say farewell.

You could even re-stack the post out of sheer indignation….

Or…what if each of you, all two-hundred and four subbies dear readers, would push the heart on all of my published posts as a festive celebratory gesture of goodwill? That would add up to a staggering twenty-one thousand likes in one day, sky-rocketing my channel to the upper regions. I could say hi to Elisabeth G. and attend some decent parties, networking my brand to….better stop here…humour is dangerous Bertus, don't try to be funny…..