Driving in the Dark
Last week I wrote about car trouble as a metaphor for writing. Didn't see it? Take a look right here.
I’m still thinking about driving. On Saturday evening, my son and I drove out to Edmonton, about 500 km (300 mi). Most of the drive was made in the dark, with nary a moose in sight, thankfully. That dark drive made me think of a favourite writing quote:
“It's like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” - E.L. Doctorow
This was my mantra when I was firmly in the “pantser” category (i.e., those of us who fly by the seat of our pants by not writing outlines). Even now that I’m outlining in my head a bit more, sometimes even daring to jot down a brief outline, it still has some relevance. I might plan my route, but lines on a map don’t equal the actual experience of driving those highways or writing that story. And a story can still sweep you up, perhaps veer you onto a secondary road that ends up being far more interesting than you’d ever imagined.
A year and a half ago, I undertook a solo tour of schools in southern Saskatchewan and Alberta to promote my book, Drummer Girl. I put on over 3000 kilometres (1864 mi) in ten days, and found that I’m much better at travelling alone than I expected to be.
One of the more memorable stretches of driving was from Swift Current, SK to Medicine Hat, AB, a 2½-hour stretch. I left Swift Current shortly after 9 p.m., so the whole drive was in the dark. It was a Wednesday night with very little moonlight or traffic, just me and the odd tractor-trailer rig.
The night was deep and dark, an endless expanse broken only by occasional headlights and scattered farmyard lights - and even those were muted by the velvet blackness. Instead of unnerving me, I felt a sense of belonging, and the awe of being part of something so immense that it defied description.
When I’m very lucky, I experience something similar while writing a story. I have a sense that the story is coming from out there somewhere, and that I’m just seeing and recording it. Of course I realize it’s coming from inside me, but in those moments my inner universe feels as vast and unfathomable as that prairie night, and I am often surprised at what appears on those inner horizons. I might not be able to see what’s coming on the next page of that story, but I trust that I’ll get there as each word, each paragraph, comes into view.
I’m still thinking about driving. On Saturday evening, my son and I drove out to Edmonton, about 500 km (300 mi). Most of the drive was made in the dark, with nary a moose in sight, thankfully. That dark drive made me think of a favourite writing quote:
“It's like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” - E.L. Doctorow
This was my mantra when I was firmly in the “pantser” category (i.e., those of us who fly by the seat of our pants by not writing outlines). Even now that I’m outlining in my head a bit more, sometimes even daring to jot down a brief outline, it still has some relevance. I might plan my route, but lines on a map don’t equal the actual experience of driving those highways or writing that story. And a story can still sweep you up, perhaps veer you onto a secondary road that ends up being far more interesting than you’d ever imagined.
A year and a half ago, I undertook a solo tour of schools in southern Saskatchewan and Alberta to promote my book, Drummer Girl. I put on over 3000 kilometres (1864 mi) in ten days, and found that I’m much better at travelling alone than I expected to be.
One of the more memorable stretches of driving was from Swift Current, SK to Medicine Hat, AB, a 2½-hour stretch. I left Swift Current shortly after 9 p.m., so the whole drive was in the dark. It was a Wednesday night with very little moonlight or traffic, just me and the odd tractor-trailer rig.
The night was deep and dark, an endless expanse broken only by occasional headlights and scattered farmyard lights - and even those were muted by the velvet blackness. Instead of unnerving me, I felt a sense of belonging, and the awe of being part of something so immense that it defied description.
When I’m very lucky, I experience something similar while writing a story. I have a sense that the story is coming from out there somewhere, and that I’m just seeing and recording it. Of course I realize it’s coming from inside me, but in those moments my inner universe feels as vast and unfathomable as that prairie night, and I am often surprised at what appears on those inner horizons. I might not be able to see what’s coming on the next page of that story, but I trust that I’ll get there as each word, each paragraph, comes into view.