Compasses exist for one purpose: finding magnetic north, so we know where we are and where we’re going in relation to the rest of the world.

The compass metaphor has always had easy parallels in life, love, a dozen other aspects of our existence. Someone wandering without direction in life, constantly changing paths, is said to be seeking north. When we meet someone we’re instantly attracted to, we hone in on them like a compass finding north. And let’s not forget radar, the compass 2.0 – annoyances don’t ping on my radar, he’s so setting off my gaydar.

So it’s not surprising that when I find the right direction on a story, I call it “finding north.” I can tell within less than a chapter if a story I’m writing is going in the wrong direction – but until I find where north is for that story I can’t tell what the right direction should be, and I can’t finish it. Not even outlines help; I could know every event that will happen on every page, but without my north writing it just won’t work. It would be a dull, pedantic, recounting of events, not a story. I’d be turning in a circle, aimless, seeking a dozen directions but never able to choose just one as the right one.

North could be a major plot point, a flow of events, a certain voice. North could just be a hook, an opening line that sets the stage just right to give me a jumping-off point and some solid footing. No matter what it is, my story’s north tells me where I am in relation to the rest of the story, and the direction I should be heading. Without that I could write ten chapters and it still wouldn’t be a story; it would just be pointless rambling.

When I find north, I just know – like people with more iron deposits in their blood and bones having a better sense of direction, and just knowing unerringly which way they should be going. Every time is different, but every time brings that click, that knowledge that I’m going the right way and I just have to follow the path to its end. When I find north, the story almost tells itself; I hurtle along in my writing, picking up one piece here, another there, fitting it all together as characters and plot and conflict come alive and twine together into something that’s as much their journey through the tale as it is my journey through writing it.

And I’ve found north on Shadow’s Voice. I’ve found Ken’s voice again, somewhat changed after her experiences in Shadow’s Breath; I’ve found my opening hook, and the chain of scenes that will continue to change Kensington Randall’s life in irrevocable ways – some minor and personal, some sweeping and catastrophic. Will I get lost along the way? Yes. I’ll veer off the path with the queasy feeling in my stomach that this is the wrong direction, and I should turn back around. But eventually I’ll find my way back, whether by retracing my steps or finding a way around whatever obstacle is keeping my story from going where it should.

Because once I find north, I know I’ll be able to find the end of the road.

Life lesson:

If you’re too tired to do something right, all the sworn avowals in the world don’t matter a damn when you just have to redo it the next day after gaping in horror at the rotten fruits of your own labor.

Yesterday I had a whirlwind day. Two resumes, a ton of e-mails to catch up on, and yet somehow I managed to write 4,000+ words on Shadow’s Voice. I promised myself that hell or high water, before bed I’d rewrite my query for Shadow’s Breath from scratch, focusing on something punchier that captures the dry humor in Ken’s voice without getting as bogged down in adjectives as the old one. By 11:00p I was practically drunk on my own tiredness, but I sat down and wrote the query anyway. Last night I thought it was okay – in need of some minor editing, but okay.

This morning I took one look at it and let out the mental equivalent of a shrill horror movie scream. It was horrible, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. It got the basic ideas I wanted down, but the writing was so loose, clunky, and disjointed that the ideas got lost in a mess that was the literary version of teeth on unglazed porcelain. I’ve since rewritten it, fresh and bright after breakfast and a short work day, and the difference is amazing. Complete 180. I don’t think it’s the best query letter in the world, but it’s better than what I’ve been using and can’t even be compared to what I wrote last night. I should have just waited until this morning and saved myself the extra work.

Thankfully the pages of SV held up better under scrutiny, but those were written earlier in the day when I was still energetic and bushy-tailed. Chapter one’s almost done; just one short scene away, I think, though I want to work out how to end the chapter on some kind of tension. I also jotted down a few later scenes introducing a new character: Jordan, who already has both Anji and Amanda’s inner thirteen-year-olds all a-flutter. I think I like Jordan, though I’m still working out a few things about his base character and personality. Roman will most definitely hate him. Once I figure out those unresolved things on his personality, that’ll determine whether he hates Roman too, or if he’s just so charming he can’t even dislike that surly little monkey.

I’ve got this whole afternoon to write and am determined to stop wasting the time I have, so off I go. Before I do, though, this post is amazing. It actually made me cry, if only because it resonated so much with the frustrations I’ve been suppressing lately in an effort to stay cheerful and positive during the long, confidence-shredding road towards publishing. It’s just great to see a published author speaking so sympathetically and so frankly of (and to) her younger self’s doubts, mistakes, optimism, disappointment…everything every aspiring author goes through. It’s great inspiration to keep your head above water, keep trying, and keep a sensible head on your shoulders.