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I had this great idea for a scene. It was action packed, played off of a horror movie trope, but turned it on it’s ear, and was just a fun, gory, frightening idea with great visuals. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it? I thought so, for three days I thought so, and this morning my plan was to barrel through the scene, to force my way through it, because I’d been stuck on it for at least three days. I’d been going great guns on the new Anita Blake novel, and then this week I hit a bump in the road. Then the bump turned out to be more like a bolder that had fallen on the engine of my momentum. I was dead in the road, stuck on the verge of this really cool scene, and I couldn’t understand why my forward progress had stopped. What was wrong with me? Now, admittedly, there’s been a lot of real life stuff to deal with this week. I blamed that, honestly, I blamed people, events, real life for knocking over my ivory tower and miring me in the mundane mud, but this morning as I tried to force my way through the scene I realized something. I realized why I’d been stuck on the edge of this scene for days.

It wasn’t the right scene. It was a path and it led somewhere, but it would have taken me down a tangental path, at best, and at worst I’d have days of writing that I’d have to throw out. I used to believe that writing the crap out cleared out the log jam of ideas so I could write, and sometimes it does, but sometimes it’s just a rabbit hole and it doesn’t lead to Wonderland. Emma Bull was the first writer that I ever heard use the term rabbit hole for a idea, scene, or plot thread, that seemed like a good idea, but ultimate led nowhere, or worse yet, derailed your book, so that you’d have to back track and find where you got lost. Some of these ideas, plot points, are just what the doctor ordered, they are unexpected rabbit holes, but they lead to Wonderland, and make the book richer, more fun, more vibrant, etc . . . Those kind of offshoots are miracles given up by the Muses, but a lot of rabbit holes lead into the dark, and eventually trap you with no way out for your plot, and no choice but to backtrack until you find your way out. You then throw out all those pages and get back on your main plot path. The trouble is that one rabbit hole looks much like another. As a writer, you don’t know if it’s just a black hole in the ground that leads nowhere useful, or a black hole in the ground that leads to marvelous things, places, sights, sounds, tastes, that will make the book come to life. From the outside all rabbit holes are dark, mysterious, and full of potential. Sometimes you have to go down the rabbit hole to figure out which kind it is, sometimes I am going at such a break neck pace, that I don’t realize it’s a rabbit hole until I’m lost in the dark. And sometimes, like this time, I get stuck on tiptoe trying to jump into the hole, but my subconscious keeps poking me, trying to tell me something. It took three days for me to listen and understand that no matter how cool the scene was going to be it didn’t belong here and would derail my plot. This was not the plot I was looking for, and I needed to move on.

If I was less stubborn I would have understood and given up, moved on, days ago, but if I was less stubborn I wouldn’t be the writer, or even person, that I am. It takes a certain cantankerousness to reach the level of productivity and success that I have as a writer, so I appreciate the value of a good stubborn mood, but sometimes it works against me, not for me. I was in love with the idea of this scene, but Anita Blake, my main character was not. Now she doesn’t always enjoy all the plots and scenes in a book, some of them are pretty hard on her psyche, and heart, and this scene would have been, too, but it wasn’t the wear and tear on her soul that Anita was balking at, it was that the scene didn’t ring true. It wasn’t what she’d do, or the world would do, or . . . It wasn’t right, and she knew it, and I knew it, but I had to fight to keep the scene for three days, before I could finally realize that some things you fight for, and some things you don’t really want in the first place, but once set on a goal it’s hard for me to turn aside from it. Again, stubbornness can be a blessing, and a curse.

One way to be sure that the scene was a rabbit hole to nowhere, is that as soon as I let go of it, the next character to be on stage stepped up, the next part of the plot is clear again. I can see my way through the forest, and I’ve found the path again. I can see the edge of the clearing, and the path runs straight and true, no rabbits in sight. But wait, what’s that on the path? Is it a wolf? A wolf carrying a basket of goodies and a red cloak? I think it is . . . but what kind of wolf is it? Will it show me a true shortcut through my plot, so I gain all the days and page production that I lost in the blind rabbit hole, or will this wolf just gobble me up, along with my plot? Sometimes being seduced by the wolf means you get a basket of goodies, a cloak, and a shortcut through the forest, and sometimes it’s more like being seduced by a serial killer. It all goes so well at the beginning, but when it’s too late to back out, too late to find your plot path in time to make your deadline, only then do you realize how big his teeth are, and how sharp his claws. Wolves are made up of issues, real ones, that you, the writer, has in your head, and your heart. They can be the fuel that helps you ride a glorious rush of inspiration, or that cheap gasoline that works for awhile, but in the end wrecks your engine, and leaves you stranded by the roadside with no help in sight. I find that the really harsh deadlines can populate my metaphorical forest with a lot of wolves. Basket of yummy goodies, or eaten alive? Treat, or trick?

Nope, nope, I can’t afford to have my plot gobbled up right now, my deadline is too close. It’s a trick; get an axe!