This is part of my “Art of Noticing” series, in which I learn, find, or discover the things around me that usually go unnoticed and turn them into an endless source of creative inspiration.
Today, I acknowledged that while I love big, intricate ideas, they tend to paralyze me. It made me consider trying something I'm not particularly fond of: taking a smaller approach.
I love, love, love big ideas. Just read my books and you’ll see what I mean: big concepts. Big questions. Lots and lots of turns in the labyrinth, and layers upon layers.
But with all that huge goodness comes complexity. And complexity, while wonderful, sometimes stops me before I start. I don’t know where to begin, and yet I feel a pressing need to make sure things all come together in the end … even though I never knew in past books how things would turn out, and yet they always did.
The result? Procrastination. This despite the fact that I’ve been writing for decades, and know better.
So, what's the solution? As someone who likes to dive deep, the idea of "simplifying" doesn't sit well with me. I also don’t like the idea of breaking a project down to more digestible pieces because that’s just not how I’ve worked in the past … but sigh, I suppose I can try. What’s creativity if not a willingness to experiment?
Here's how this "noticing" can benefit my stories and art:
Dividing the Narrative
Instead of seeing a story as one big thing, I could view it as a collection of interconnected pieces. Writing a scene, developing a character backstory, or even just setting the stage for one pivotal moment might be more achievable steps towards the bigger project.
I kind of hate this idea, but maybe you won’t hate it if you’re like me and have a similar problem.
I’m brainstorming here; not sure if I’ll do it. (Hey. I’m just being honest.)
Keep the Complexity, but Get Some Clarity
Simplifying doesn't mean losing the essence of the big story. “Simplifying” in this case just means identifying the core of the idea and ensuring that while I add layers and depth, the central theme remains clear and undiluted. The clarity I get from doing that might serve as a guidepost, ensuring I don't lose my way in the labyrinth of the narrative.
This one, I actually will try. Because although my books become complex, the best and most fun-to-write ones didn’t start that way. Complexity has always emerged for me rather than being there from the start. Unfortunately, it’s moved to the starting blocks and I can’t seem to shake it. Remembering that I can boil things down and wait for the complexity to come is something I should keep in mind.
If Everything Else Fails, I Can At Least Embrace the Discomfort of It All
Trying a writing approach I’m not used to is uncomfortable. I typically prefer immersing myself fully into big ideas and letting them grow, but signs now say maybe that’s not my best way to do things.
So maybe I should take my own advice. After all, growth often comes from pushing our own boundaries. Simplifying or breaking down an idea, even if don’t want to, might show me new creativity I hadn't seen before.
Every complex idea is a challenge. And while my instinct is usually to dive deep, maybe resisting the urge is a better way to go.
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Dividing the Narrative works for me, even in a short story. Technically, a scene is a sort of complete story, so I tell myself if I write a solid scene, then I’m ahead of the game.
It’s easy to latch on to big ideas and get excited about them because we’re wired to think about the end, the fruit of all the labor, the space beyond the question mark in “what if?”
We don’t usually like having to pull back from that heavenly vision of the full and blooming garden, to the space and time where we have to roll up our sleeves and shove our sweaty hands into the dirt. It’s not a character flaw, it’s just us reacting to the hope we carry—that maybe THIS TIME we’ll find the gold after we turn over the first shovel full of soil.
Nobody really wants to do all that digging. And if they say they do, I am immediately suspicious of them. We cannot play “trust fall” together. Keep your hands off my toys.
Every big thing is made up of the small stuff. That’s just an immutable law of the universe. And the better we are at “thinking small,” the bigger we get to build.