Patterns and Disruptions

I've noticed something about my newsletters lately.

Each month, I announce some exciting new direction for my writing—and then the following month, I'm somewhere completely different.

And yes, I'm doing it again this month. But I think I've finally figured out why I keep stalling. It's about patterns and disruptions and my difficulty in bridging the two.

What I've Discovered

I've always struggled with my personal writing projects. I repeatedly create outlines but lose interest in the actual writing. After another month of doing this, I looked at my collaborative work with Angie on our Shepherd and Wolfe books.

We have a natural division of labour: she typically writes the first half, and I write the second. Studying this, I've come to understand that this isn't just a convenient arrangement. It plays to our strengths. Angie excels at establishing the characters' everyday lives and routines before the central conflict begins. She patiently explores who they are and builds their world.

Me? I thrive on disruption. I love figuring out how to knock everything over and create chaos. I'm good at driving the plot forward and pushing toward resolution.

Because of this, when I write on my own, I struggle with beginnings. I want to jump straight to the "good stuff"—the conflicts, the tensions, the high stakes. I get impatient with the quiet moments of characters going about their lives. Yet, these disruptions lack meaning and impact because I haven't done the hard work to establish those patterns first.

Why This Matters

As I explored this idea, I thought of Keith Johnstone's Impro. He talks about storytelling as establishing rituals and patterns before disrupting them. The pattern gives meaning to the disruption—it's the foundation upon which everything else is built.

However, I haven't been patient enough to explore this crucial first step. Sitting in the not-knowing, in the slow discovery of characters and their world, makes me uncomfortable. I like "stuff happening," and the minutiae of everyday life feels tedious to write.

At the heart of this problem is the fear of that discomfort—of spending time in uncertainty before the story's direction becomes clear. I plan out the big disruptions but avoid the quiet character moments that might take up more page space.

This past month taught me that I need to be comfortable with my discomfort. I need to learn to sit in the quiet moments of my characters' lives.

What Happens Next

While discovering this realization, life has thrown its own disruption into my plans. In a way, this fits the pattern-disruption cycle perfectly—just as I was establishing a new understanding, another change came along.

I'll focus on finishing the fifth and final Shepherd and Wolfe book with Angie and rebuilding my screenwriting class for the university. But for now, I've decided to step back from my personal writing projects.

When I return to my work, I want to approach it differently. Maybe I should take more of an improv approach—sitting down and discovering the characters as I write, allowing myself to sit in the discomfort of not knowing until I figure out who they are and what patterns define their lives.

I've spent years developing my skill at creating disruption. Now, I must build the other half of the equation—establishing the patterns that make those disruptions meaningful. Stories need both elements, and I must develop the patience to create both.

Until next time,
David