The little universe I’ve tinkered together has taken on a life of its own. It refuses to stop growing. It isn’t so little any more. Neither is the story arc. It wants to span oceans, now. My characters run rough-shod all over me. I’m bullied by people no one else can yet see.
This isn’t writing — this is taking dictation from a bunch of invisible tyrants who don’t understand the concept of ‘waiting your turn’.
To contain the sprawling plot, I’ve deployed outlines in multiple but finite directions. To keep track of this fevered figment, I’ve drawn out parallel time-lines. Just maybe I’ll prevent overlapping occurrences and actions from getting all tangled up. Continuity matters.
World building. Fictitious geographies, topographies and climates. Fantastical maps, so I’ll know characters’ locations at any given moment. Strange, mystical and physical laws. Family trees. Naming conventions —
— oh, heavens.
Names. Given names, family names, place names,… thing names. Everyone and everything that’s pertinent to the story has to be named. Pharmaceutical companies and auto manufacturers are making some of those names sound, well, plain and dull by contrast.
Hours and hours of research for cosmology, mythical beasts, quantum physics, poli sci, superstitions, and gender issues in all directions,…
In a brief moment of rare quiet I asked myself, “Why am I doing this?”
I listened, but I couldn’t hear the answer because that quiet moment was over all too quickly.