June 24, 2013 by Angel Pricer
Stairway to Heaven starts with the engine and I back out of the garage thinking “whose voice is this, anyway?” While the lady Robert Plant sings of is sure all that glitters is gold, I’m sure of nothing except that the 830 words I just wrote swing between tense and point of view enough to almost make me bring up my breakfast.
Never mind. I’m singing along, thinking of the mourning doves that accompanied me on the deck earlier. A close pair, one never far from the other. They ignite a memory of a dream from last night of two hawks perched in a nest on the high, green porch of some man I’ve never met. For whatever reason, this vision gives way to an image of my main character reading a letter. Of course! The mother wrote a letter to her daughter. Not only do I know who’s talking now, but another plot piece has fallen neatly into place.
Rounding the ramp to the highway I see a pair of real hawks, flying low near two lonely trees in the green between roads. A perfect place to raise their young away from strange men and porches, I muse. My heart soars in knowing that the idea I just had is one worthy of my pursuit. Thank you, my feathered friends.
This sequence of events makes me wonder. Is this the way all novels unfold? One part never far from the next, each step revealed as a result of the willingness to write through uncertainty, get on with life, and let the rest be revealed?