The Stumbling Block

Context: I was reading a story I thought was great, then felt it starting to stumble, and just reached the part where I would get out my form letter to say "I regret to say..."

So many good authors get part way into what could be an incredible story and then lose the plot. Things start to get more complicated for no good reason. New plotlines pop up like cockroaches, scuttling into the shadows as soon as you look to closely, creeping out to shock you when you least expect it, feeding on the momentum and timing of the tale. New characters get introduced when none were needed. And worse: the characters (needful and not) "treat" the reader to pointless philosophical maunderings, strident political soapboxing, even just death spiral navel gazing.

Now, none of these things are bad in and of themselves. Twists add spice to a tired "meatloaf" plot, like stretching leftovers. Injecting new characters can jostle the dynamic and create new avenues for development. A little introspection and exposition can frame events so they seem like more than cut-outs.

But it seems like it's fairly common for a certain kind of author to just lose it part way into an otherwise gripping story. The additions and permutations start to take over, like the story is falling into a fugue state of baroque elaboration - Fibonacci sequences all the way down.

Sometimes (often, if the writer is really any good) the story pulls itself together, usually just in time for the last sequence. But what causes the runaway complication effect in the first place? 

I have a theory: Confidence.

Or rather: the lack of it.

I think a good author just sometimes gets the heebie-jeebies and suddenly doesn't really believe the story they're writing is good enough.

Let's face it, for all the talk about "it's to entertain people" to some (large) degree it's about recognition, about being arrogant enough to believe that other people will pay money to read our mad ravings. It stands to reason then that once in a while we'll get that chill on our necks, that dry, metallic taste in our mouths, and suddenly wonder: "am I good enough?"

And that's when a writer suddenly starts welding on gew gaws, adding fillips and curlicues, and injecting the story with "intellectual substance" or "artistic merit".

I'm sure there comes a time, after the fact, that the writer comes back an looks and thinks "oh God, what was I thinking!?"

But in that moment?

In that moment when the terrors whisper there's nothing but a desperate need to be good enough and if it isn't resisted, if the writer doesn't buckle down and trust the story, that's when bad things happen.

I'm going to finish this story, because the opening showed such promise. I really want the author to pull it back, but it's already a real loss, because I've just watch an author with skill and talent stumble over their own self-doubt.