Isn’t it really that I just can’t get myself to pull together the net I’ve been scheming at all summer, the plot I’ve been plotting out to catch at last this Book of Bees that like Emily D’s “will not state its sting.”
Things – plotwise – have been going so swimmingly.
Characters finally standing on their own two feet.
Shouldering their responsibilities.
Falling straight into the traps I lay for them.
Everything has been shaping up so nicely, clicking into place like it belonged that way but now I have to let the final calamities and consequences fall upon my unwitting actors.
And just like I hate ending a good book I’m reading, just like I hate to have summer end, I’m fighting coming to some usual conclusion.
What’s more, I’m afraid I’m in the same position as Jane Bennett —
that I have sufficient virtue amidst my two or three main characters to
make but one good woman out of them all. And it pains me to think ill (or plot against) any of my characters.
I mean, any more ill than I already have — having started out taking from each of them the things they treasure most.
Isn’t that enough?
I want them all to prosper now — since I’ve already inflicted all my own nightmares on them — but can’t see a way to do it.
And what irks me the most is that the things that really matter to me in this particular writing — not the interpersonal ups and downs but the fascinations that led me to this plot in the first place — the keeping of bees, the making a safe place, the reviving the city — these are all thrust aside continually by the exigencies of plot and interpersonal melodrama.
If my characters can’t prosper quietly and get their hidden agendas and shallow self-considerations out of the way, I think someone ought to lock up them all up, the drama queens, and let the wider and more important work be accomplished.
So maybe I am in the mood for the frost after all.