Revision-wise, structure is my main concern at the moment. How can a reader (even if said reader is no one other than myself acting as reader) make sense of the overall experience generated by so many characters, each of them pursuing a goal he or she may not even know how to express.
Try it. Try spending time with a group of people. Try to distinguish your own bias from theirs. For one. Try to imagine their arc (needs, ambitions, blind spots), as distinctive from your own. What common needs draw them together or make them polar opposites? Why are you and them in a given place at the same time, and to what purpose?
I’ve written the draft doesn’t mean any of that is clear to me. In fact, the more I read through, the more puzzled I become. Who are these fictional people? Why do I spend so much time with them? What are they trying to tell me, the reader? (The writer’s given up on understanding the why, what or how of writing, at least for the time being).
Is the search for structure an illusion too? Does the story have a purpose? The words “organized confusion” pop up, I enter them as title to this post. Not the “whole world’s a stage” bit from Shakespeare but something like it. I part ways with the “signifying nothing” part. There’s meaning of some sort, I suppose. Most of the time, I give up searching for it and concentrate on tangible bits of experience: the sound of wind in the trees, the smell of an orange peel, the expression on someone’s face.
Organized confusion is the best I can come up with this morning. Re-potted more plants yesterday. Because of the strong gusts of wind rattling the shutters, I picked up Shakespeare’s The Tempest in the single-play edition last night (the complete Shakespeare is wonderful but weighs one kilo eight hundred grams – not exactly pocket book size). Read some, then overslept, and enjoyed it.
Voilà. Nothing of transcendental importance. Life, as it plays when there’s time to take matters as they come. With pieces of puzzle strewn about and an itch to have them mean something.