A Kick in the Pantsers

“Still waters run deep, you know! She is probably just thinking and mentally outlining her next chapter.”

“More like stagnant waters don’t flow and she is stuck in some sort of boggy plot hole without the inspiration, inclination or impetus to get herself out.”

The five Dabrowski Dogs, Imaginational, Intellectual, Emotional, Sensual and Psycho Motor, were sitting in a semi-circle in front of their mistress, Little Plump Jo, peering anxiously at her.

Little Plump Jo was the current Artisan in Residence in Malory Tennyson’s Cloudbank Cabin for Arthurian Studies. She had come to the cabin to work on a Photo Essay assignment for her university studies, then stayed on, intending to write a retelling of the entire Arthurian legend in the month of November. That was three years ago; and although she had written two and a half books, several poems and forty-something short stories, she was still no closer to achieving her target. And now, her writing seemed to be at a complete standstill. She had been just sitting on the couch and playing games on her iPad or reading (and they were not books on Intellectual Dabrowski’s prescribed reading list).

The Dabrowski Dogs were Little Plump Jo’s writing companions. They were the only reason Malory Tennyson had extended Jo’s residency in Cloudbank Cabin. Because the dogs could hear a different range of sound they were able to hear Malory Tennyson and the Arthurian characters in their fictional dimension and facilitate communication between the real and fictional for Jo.

Malory Tennyson staged reenactments of the Arthurian legends, using the original canon characters, in the Fog Lake at the foot of Cloudbank Cabin. The Artisans in Residence could view the action in the Fog Lake from the porch of the cabin. Over hundreds of years many authors, artists, musicians and filmmakers had come to Cloudbank Cabin to create their masterpieces. But, to Malory’s frustration, most of them considered the cabin a scenic, atmospheric and peaceful place to work but were not able to interact in any way with the characters. This led to frustration for Malory, as the artisans often depicted his beloved characters in ways that did not please him. He would pace and rant about it, unseen and unheard, in his own dimension. Malory had been delighted to find that he could communicate with Jo via the dogs and hoped she would be able to write the next great Arthurian retelling under his guidance.

So, the dogs felt under a sense of obligation to Malory to keep Jo writing. Intellectual loved to research and provided Jo with references and citations for books, articles and other resources. Jo tended to ignore his offerings and pay more attention to Imaginational, who often suggested novel plotlines and new characters. Emotional and Sensual, as well as helping Jo identify and describe feelings and emotions, offered her insight into her own needs and comforts. And Psycho Motor usually just gave encouragement by bouncing around her, barking enthusiastically.

“We need to get her writing again” barked Intellectual. “She did not finish the description of the wedding of Janny and Danny. She did not even attempt to write on the topic of last week’s prompt ‘Ritual’ and now she is considering tackling another 50,000-word Novel Sprint in November. But she does not have any sort of plan for writing that yet.”

“Don’t worry about planning! There is always plenty happening in the Fog Lake that she can record. And Imaginational has great story ideas!” That was Psycho Motor, impetuous as ever.

“That is just not good enough, Psycho! She needs to be a Planner – not a Pantser!” Intellectual preferred to see well-constructed world building, planned plotlines, and carefully crafted character arcs. He had never approved of the ‘leave it to Imaginational’ method.

“Why do you think she stopped writing?” queried Sensual. “Do you think she was as wiped out as I was by overstimulation at the wedding feast?”

“That was the reason she did not finish writing about the wedding. She was waiting for you to wake up and describe the sights, sounds and scents for her. But surely that was not the reason she did not write about the Prompt.”

“She didn’t write about the Prompt because it was all about a ritual,” barked Emotional. “She wanted to describe a ritual burning of old documents which related to a really unpleasant situation which happened over twenty years ago. But she only managed to write this fragment before her tears dowsed the flames and washed the words away.

A Ritual Burning

The fire crackled and sparks flew up into the midnight blue sky.

“I forgive you, S. and R. I forgive you for causing such damage to my finances and my reputation.”

Another load of paper landed in the fire drum. The flames licked the edges of the pages. Then, just as it seemed that the fire would be smothered, the flames leaped up and engulfed the whole stack in red and gold with flashes of indigo and blue . More sparks rose up and drifted away.

“I free myself from the feeling of necessity to store all this paperwork, relating to those horrible days. It is well over twenty years ago. It is long past the statute of limitations. I have been dragging these boxes of papers with me all these years, finding a place to stack them in each successive office or home. It is very unlikely now that anyone will ever mention those days again, let alone me having to demonstrate that I was the one who was misrepresented and underpaid.”

More single pages joined the little bonfire. “These might as well go too. They prove that I could have staged the conference in cheaper venues and handled the catering in more efficient ways (with much better tasting food too) if S. and R. had not interfered!

I kept those brochures and price lists in case I organized another conference in the future. But the information and prices would be well out of date by now. I can always find it online if needed.”

“No need to keep multiple copies of teaching programs, worksheets, handout notes and articles either. That empties another storage tub! This is good! What else can I burn while we have the fire?”

A stack of very old invoices and receipts, and passbooks for bank and building society accounts which no longer existed were dropped into the fire pit. “My parents’ estates were completely settled many decades ago. There is no need to keep any of these.”

“And no need to keep all the old medical files. I won’t burn recent ones or x-rays and scans. But I definitely do not need appointment reminder cards from years ago.”

“And all these old story drafts – nothing of value there! In fact, they are just really embarrassing now. They can all go!”

“And that was all she wrote!”

“Well, I can understand why that brought up bad memories and she did not finish writing that story. But it does not explain why she has not started on any other writing since. Do you think that the depression with the fancy name that you said Sir Lancelot is suffering could be contagious, Intellectual?” That was Imaginational Dabrowski’s speculation.

“Existential Depression? I would not think it is contagious per se, but it can put a bit of a dampener on the general mood.”

“I can’t see what Sir Lancelot’s problem is!” barked Psycho Motor. “He can do anything as easily I can bounce and Imaginational can walk on his hind legs. Why isn’t he happy with his life? I think he just needs a good swift kick in the pants to get him going again.”

“I shall call in the Perfectionist Poodles!” decreed Intellectual. “They can sort out Sir Lancelot and Little Plump Jo and make them perform to the level of their potential.”

“No, Intellectual! Not the Perfectionist Poodles” howled Emotional. “Sir Lancelot has been dogged by the depression causing Black Dog, P’est Pour Parfait all his life and the white poodle, Atteindre L’excellence, can only try to lesson the effect by positive messages and encouragement to strive. And if Little Plump Jo gets pushed too far by P’est Pour Parfait, she will either procrastinate or completely refuse to write.”

“I think we should send them both to the seaside,” suggested Sensual. “Little Plump Jo could spend a week or so in a seaside cottage. She could soak up the sun rays, swim or paddle each day, and sit on the sand under an umbrella with a good book. She could collect shells and paint and have freshly caught fish and potato chips for her tea.”

“Yes! Great idea!” enthused Imaginational, capering on his hind legs like a circus dog. “Lancelot could go for a sail on the ocean, maybe even back to France. The fresh sea air would do him the world of good. And Guinevere could go with him. And they could drink a love potion and…”

“That was Tristram and Isolde, you twit!” scolded Intellectual. “Lancelot and Guinevere don’t need to drink any love potion. They have had their Love at First Sight Moment. Their love is not contrived. It does not need excuse or explanation. It is tragic, forbidden, unbidden and completely authentic. It just is!”