Have you ever had the feeling you were going to write something but just didn’t? Did it matter? Or did you not care? What compelled you to write something even though you weren’t going to? Was it passion? Compulsion? Duty? Or entitlement to write the best novel for the modern era? And did you get around to writing it at all? How did it make you feel when you didn’t write it? Really good. Chill, relax, and take a break.
This is indeed a relief. There is a sense of relief when I decide on a course of action rather than doing everything at once, relief that I do not have to do everything in one go. But stick to the project at hand and later on tackle the new project.
Someone may say to me, “Your reviews are relevant”. It’s a compliment. He likes my reviews. But are they relevant? Being relevant is how it sounds rather than what it is. Relevance, therefore, is illusion. What’s relevant writing depends on the reader and their point of view. The person who says that my reviews are relevant is judging that on his own point of view. Relevance is not objective.
In “The Wind in the Willows”, a children’s book that’s considered a classic and that I am presently reading, there’s the main action and we find out later what was going on in parallel to that action in a conversational scene. The author chose to tell what happened in parallel in just one scene. I found this worked perfectly, in this case. So, the question I have, is why would an author choose one lot of action first and tell the reader what happened in parallel later on, in just one scene? I think the author must know how this choice would effect the flow of the story. It may flow better that way. By telling two stories at once in parallel may lesson the effectiveness of the story as a whole. You may lose the gist of the story. Parallel plot lines — where two stories are told in parallel at virtually the same time — are the exception and one uses it only for the purposes of telling the story more effectively, without losing the gist of the story.
Street sight is long, run-by the forlorn,
A cloud settling across. The street mastered by a turn, as ghosts come and go.
Darkness one thinks she sees, ghosts flashing across trees, deafening cries of the lost souls from purgatory,
Lingering in her mind the fraternity,
Their callings exciting the moon
And along comes the white and spot of lunar light and valleys of doom,
There she finds Silence rambling, the day languishing, but not in the heart of someone lying down.
Curious she bent Surprised to find one who rose to meet her, with a crown.
The light brighter than before. Enlightened, wonder-awed, by the face,
She fell into the calm, the breeze behind.
And saw the street unlike before.