4 Lessons Learned Writing a Braided Narrative
A word count representing six weeks of work stared back at me. Cutting it was the easy part, requiring only a few keystrokes and placement of the words into a holding document. I called it my parking lot, and though it would likely never be used, it pained me to think about simply deleting the entire thing. This seemed less barbaric, as if to tell myself the words could have value in some other, future moment.
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The harder part was more emotional. I’d started this braided narrative with four characters, each living and each having spent hours talking to me to create their strand of the braid. They had full access to my writing once it was done. I couldn’t find any other way to satisfy my heart than by letting it be so. Three of my characters were delighted. The fourth balked, and no amount of red pen could eliminate the fact that, once his story was in black and white, it was just too damn hard to imagine being out in the universe for thousands of eyes. It stung, but there was but to pull the strand.
I clicked my way into the parking lot, cut and paste the sections I needed, then stood up and walked away.
“Did you do it?” my partner asked as I brushed past him.
I nodded, opening the fridge and grabbing the expensive kombucha I was saving for the next day.
The experience of writing a present-day braided narrative taught me more than the humility required when crafting a story about living individuals, though it did that well. The greater lessons contained the gymnastics required in putting the story back together and in always leaving space for a narrative that is breathing. The lessons are of course those that transcend the braided narrative, applicable to all types of writing.
With the narrative I’d intended now sliced by twenty-five percent, I had space. This provided a richer story when I was able to weave back into the pages pieces I’d had to cut. Characters became more vivid, descriptions of fields and stadiums full of spectators came to life. I discovered entire subplots that I could lean into a bit more, and it brought freshness to my existing chapters.I learned the art of leaving breadcrumbs. A neat prose was typically more my style. All the loose ends tied up at the conclusion of the story. But realistically, in a work that had many fingers in it, I needed places to escape if further big edits happened. I added a few sequences that I could pull at the very end if needed, and some that I left in regardless. Life, like writing, doesn’t lend itself to always being so tidy, I figured. Letting the breadcrumbs remain scattered was a safer and more lifelike plan.When it was time to at last turn in my final draft, I worked hard coming to terms with the fact that the instant it was out of my hands, the story would be outdated. This too, is life. We often seek the clean and predictable path, but the best stories are often those that bubble up behind the scenes. The reason the book was written in the first place. What happened after the last chapter. Realizing this helped me see the joy in the last lesson.Material that I’d cut and stories that continued after the manuscript was turned in sprouted new life. There were suddenly stories to tell and nuggets to draw upon in interviews and podcasts. Readers loved to hear the details of characters they’d grown attached to and what had happened since their role in the book had concluded. As an author, it was almost like writing the sequel, but without the effort of putting fingers to keyboard.
So go ahead and braid in present day, never fearing the strands that are out of place and need to be tucked back in or pulled away all together. They may end up being the most meaningful pieces of your story.
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