Sometimes a story flows along in order. I have the beginning situation, I think I know the ending, and as I finish each scene, the next scene is quite obvious. The ending I reach isn’t always exactly where or how I first imagined. And during re-writes I may cut out a few scenes entirely and/or add new scenes. But, generally, there is a feeling in some stories almost as if you, the author, are merely a witness to a story that played out for itself. Your decisions amount more to deciding which events to include, which to skip over, and how to frame things.

Then there are stories that are much more a struggle. I know the problems confronting my protagonists. I have an idea how it will end (but sometimes it’s no more than whether the protagonist triumphs or fails). Scenes are written, but sometimes with no idea as to where in the sequence of events they happen. Rather than witnessing a tale, the author is more like a detective or an archeologist digging around a messy place, collecting and cataloging pieces until there is finally enough to get an idea of the broad outline of the tale. Your decisions are more complicated. Is this thing you unearthed even part of the story? Is it even a “thing,” or have you mistakenly glued several unrelated fragments together into what appears to be a clay pot?

A lot of my stories fall somewhere between those. Lately I’ve been writing a lot of scenes that clearly have a sequence, but I’m not sure they all belong. And sometimes I’m a bit worried that I’m digging in the wrong spot entirely.

There’s no way to tell until I reach an ending. And that will just begin a different kind of digging, assembling, and evaluating.

Sometimes I wonder how any stories ever come together.