Building a Mystery

While deciding to jot down an idea that's really insistent on becoming 'a thing' someday, I became more aware of a tendency I've developed in my focus during the idea stages.

I flesh out the beginning. I detail the build of the character, the weather, the time of day, their clipped breaths, their urgency, what they're doing with their clothes. I build the environment since beginnings can be a really tough place while arranging them in the many editing phases. It's a place that starts off mentally like the holographic cubes and grids in a sci-fi simulation, where the computer has yet to build the scene that immerses the occupant into the virtual reality. Because I'm not yet sure of what it will become, I set about painting the first few frames with details meant to initiate me, that I am the newcomer, that this place and person existed long before and I am the one who has to be initiated into the reality, not them.

The middle of the idea usually falls along these lines 'supporting subplots to explain these psychological results of this character that causes them to do these actions.' The bold parts are variant, but let's fill in the blanks mad-lib style for the sake of an example: Supporting subplots to explain the growing obsession of a schoolteacher that causes them to repeatedly fail their students.

That's right; I don't humor the meat of the story at all.

Cutting to the end (because it's otherwise not significant to this post but still useful), I go in-between. I write a specific resolution or two. In the case of the example, perhaps I decide that 1) the school teacher resents their job but doesn't know what else they want to do with their life or 2) that they want to challenge their students to defend their work by putting their feet to the fire. It's not a coincidence that I choose two very opposing extremes that gives the chosen conclusion permission to fall somewhere in the middle. While it's important to have an overall point, this is one area where you don't exactly have to be married to, especially as the story evolves. You just need a pretty good idea to anchor the subplots to an end.

Now back to why I believe this is most effective.

Typically, when I draft I like to nail down the beginning and at least the first supporting subplot that it merges into. I'm not from the camp that believes the beginning has to be instantly spectacular, just get on the damn road. You do want to initiate the reader into your voice, your style, your storytelling, but there's no magic formula for every reader, so this is where you have to make a personal call as to what your story needs to work. As I said before, your beginning is likely to change completely, so if beginnings aren't your strong suit, this is a place to play until you submerge into the story more confidently. This is your kiddie pool before you are ready for the high dive.

The middle parts always seem to either come as you get there or you might find you want to stop the free-writing to begin a planning phase. This can often benefit from a sort of mad-lib of the initial mad-lib, only it's more rooted in the logic of your loose mission statement. Where would a teacher be that makes sense? Where could they be that doesn't make much sense until your plot development sheds light on it? Does your teacher meet a wise old librarian that enlightens them on teaching methods or are they drinking in a strip club when an aging hooker startles them with some sound life advice?

Set some markers where the seeds of your story will grow. Go with the classic Who, What, Where, When, Why, How and fill them in with possibilities. At first, it might seem shallow and silly, but in my experience, once you get past the shallow end of it, you'll start to home in on certain words and it will paint pictures that start making genuine connections with your intent.

Regardless of how solid your intent is, at that. A story evolves in the motion of ideas and inspiration. You can't always be actively looking for it. Sometimes it comes in the free-writing, sometimes it comes in the deliberate act of brain-storming. Many writers try to guide you on how to utilize these things most effectively, but I believe this is down to how well you trust your intuition. You can be flighty and unanchored in the free-write because you're going to edit later, right?

Oh please, tell me you don't think that first draft is going to be instant magic. Even if you're right, you're wrong. Everyone can do MUCH better than the first draft.

From personal experience, I can say that in building an effective mystery, there's some magic in going in blind, but don't expect an entire novel to operate on that. You may need many different methods to arrive at the richest transitions in your adventure. I know many a writer who, even if I'm instantly captivated by their work, I am also able to be surprised and more enchanted by their certainty that, on further edits, they can top it. More often than not, the ones most confident that it's not perfect are the storytellers that make the best magic once they decide they've satisfied the story (even though they'll still insist it's not perfect, at some point, they are wise to set it free).

The key to a good mystery in storytelling, no matter the genre, is to leave a little mystery for yourself. You can work out the kinks in logic and presentation later, but don't be so obsessed with control over the story before it's even been written. I've seen more than my share of carefully planned stories that bog the writer down before it ever becomes a coherent story. This sort of planning is more effective for a project manager or story planner, but this is because you're passing it off to someone who will look at it fresh. Don't kill the mystery for yourself by keeping the planning too tight. Leave some for the drafting.

A solid beginning and ending are great motivators for me, although on occasion, I like to leave the ending loose as well, as a sort of finish line, the icing on the cake, but that's the exception rather than the rule. I've found I like to have a good base for where things start and where things end up, but leave the playground open. Yes, the end and the beginning may change drastically while the middle becomes richer, but as I continue my journey as a writer, I'm less married to anything I write that just doesn't ultimately benefit the story. Cutting and rearranging and starting from scratch will happen. What I need to love is the result, so what is sacrificed to get there is what I endeavor to accept more gracefully.

It Always Starts on a Rainy Night

Sure, there are exceptions, but in literature and movies, there's always that air of mystery wrapped into those rainy nights. Maybe it's a cheap and automatic draw into the shared experience that comes with the rain. Inconvenience, the love/loathing of the rain's smell, the warmth/chill of water on the skin, the concealment, the greater population staying out of it in favor of staying dry--whatever it is, there are layers for the writer to explore or to leave to the reader's imagination.

Whenever I start a story, one of the primary concerns I have is where I am setting the first character that will serve as a lead-in for the story. How much they are aware depends on how they feel about the weather. Would they love snow or rain or be complacent on a dry night? Does cold make their scars ache or does the heat make them sweat and itch? So often, a writer will talk about how deep and rich a character is, but it's also true that good writing is on the skin. You don't have to write the ode to itchy skin, but it's also important that the writer is aware of the skin they're in.

Speaking of skin, are we aware of the subjectivity of beauty? Are they perceived as beautiful or ugly and do they agree? Does being called one or the other always seem to stun them or do they ignore it unfazed? Are they an ugly crier or does their skin blotch red when they swallow their emotions? Does rain make their skin uncomfortable or do they avoid it to preserve their vanity and expensive fashion choices?

Wherever you begin the setting of your writing or just imaginations, the layers beneath it aren't always an active process of doing. As a gatherer of observations, there may be less notes and more scattered thoughts as we jump from one curiosity to the next. Sometimes it doesn't really start at a neat spot; sometimes it's an overwhelming web and when we whittle it down...

It's just odd how often that the place so often comes down to a rainy night.

UnNamed started there and the idea I was hashing out last night came around to the rainy night too. Despite my own meditative experience with rain, in my stories, I always see it in the reason for urgency, the playground for the determination of someone to brave it because life has more pressing matters than waiting for the rain to stop.

Time and again, I start there too because I'm looking for something across those oddly-sentient nights where water and air are testing human affairs for resiliency.

And the rebel in me started UnSung in a place quite opposite. Why let the curiosity always hover on obsession? What's on the polar opposite of an obsession has answers too.

Shut. Up. Already.

No, not you; my brain needed some public shaming to process my overall frustration. My muscles ache down to my very fingertips and this blob of grey matter is full speed ahead insisting on some really amazing story ideas. Not the ideas that will push my current projects past their hurdles, noooo. New. Better, even, it insists, although we've had this argument before and supposedly we agreed that comparisons, for better or worse, are creative death.

Look, I know this brain is the very same singular one I own and not actually a separate entity, but there's such a thing as duality (and more) in a single house and sometimes it's a whole damn deck of cards. It takes one over-excited toddler thought screaming '52 pickup!' to send the whole deck flying. So, however you describe it, this is one brain warring with me on what use my body can actually be to my aspirations. Even when I surrender to prove I am physically incapable, it will wait all of a minute before sending a 'how about now?'

Logic and impulse might as well be two ever-present entities. Because ultimately I know they're both pricks, too blunt to be trusted to control my mouth, I let them do battle in the cranium. They knock against my teeth and make my eyes g fuzzy, but more often than not, if impulse doesn't tumble out prematurely, logic will prevail through sheer stamina. Impulse likes naps and ice cream far more than fighting with logic.

Logic, on the other hand, is on vacation when I'm not feeling well. So here I be, tapping away at a tablet to humor impulse until it scurries off for naps. Logic makes a story work. Yes. I wholly agree. But you need not a lot of anything to entertain rough ideas.

Are my notes coherent? Only by the grace of autocorrect could that be possible. I'm not even sure I'm hitting the keys that make words. I'm reading every sentence three times just to make sure they're not abusing the English language too unforgivably.

What I'd really like to do is write in earnest. However, logic sent a postcard and informs me it'll be back once I get my shit together. 

Psh. Logic, you're an abused lover that thinks it can't do better. We both know I'll never get my shit together.