The force has not found its form

(YET)

Perhaps because I was poet when I began my writing career (two, maybe three, decades ago?), or perhaps because patterns and order are important to me, FORM is important to me. Even as a prose writer: I’m kind of obsessed with form. I might even go so far as to say that form is more important to me than story. I’ll keep the pitchforks at bay by amending it this way: Form is essential to story.

Form is organizing principle. Form is function.

“What is this universe but name and form?” —Swami Vivekananda

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When I was in grad school (a decade ago), I had no idea how to write a story. I had ideas. I wrote nice sentences. Sometimes the nice sentences and the ideas got together to tell a story, but more often, they did not.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget my introduction to Freytag’s Pyramid. It was as if a key fell from thin air, bonked me on the head, and I knew without doubt which door it opened.

This isn’t to say that I use Freytag’s Pyramid to shape my stories: I don’t. At least not purposefully. I’m not a particularly linear person, and I prefer organic structures over man-made ones. But knowing this traditional, dramatic story structure has given me permission to 1) understand how a linear story might work and 2) rebel against it and explore other structures.

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Some questions I’ve been asking myself lately: Is this really a novel? OR Is it a novella? Is it a short story? Is it flash fiction? Is it a poem? Is it an essay?

What even are these files in my IN PROGRESS folder?

Over the last few years—and beyond—I’ve accumulated several story starts, and somehow, over the years, I have begun to think of all of them as NOVELS.

Novels!

Novels?

The possibility moved out of exciting and into daunting. Not daunting in a good way, daunting in the way of avoidance.

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Now, the book form (novel, memoir, poetry collection, etc.) is different from, though related to, story form (linear, in media res, cellular, etc.).

There are forms within forms (within forms, once we get to the section, chapter, sentence levels, which we won’t, today). Ideally, all the forms of a piece are working together to create a finished whole.

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Form is a big word, and a shifty one. It can feel elusive when it is absent, and inevitable when it is present.

This is as applicable to book form as it is to story form.

So, I’m daunted by the fact that I have come to believe every document in my IN PROGRESS folder is a novel. I know I want to write a novel, yet somehow I keep writing books in other forms, and so perhaps it is purely aspirational. A solid touchpoint to rebel against, to use as excuse to discover something else.

This week, I have reminded myself that the novel form can be a key to the possibilities of other forms.

Writing a story can be a little like playing Goldilocks: this form is too big, this form is too small, this form is just right.

Here’s what I know about Goldilocks: she didn’t settle for a bed just because it was a bed. She kept trying beds until she found the one that helped her fall asleep.

Or, if you prefer folk music to fairy tales, I offer this quote, which has been on repeat in my brain all week:

“When I first wrote this song, it was a ballad. And then I heard The Replacements, and it wasn’t anymore.” —Amy Ray, on 1200 Curfews about her song “Land of Canaan”

Do you have a story—or stories—that haunt you? (Or, maybe haunt is too strong a word, so let’s say, bother you? Remain unfinished business? Beg for revisiting again and again?) Stories that don’t quite finish themselves? Stories that are too big or too small? Stories that are ballads begging to be punk rock?

Maybe I can prompt you to take another look, and try another form.

Did I say DAUNTING?

Hey, at least you won’t be alone.

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Fall photos thanks to my dear friend (of 38 years!), Big Sar.

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