A novel is just a collection of short stories, that all coincide with one another. Where all the characters keep running into one another and the threads of their lives continue to propel them into directions that conflict with each other.
But each moment with each character is only ever a singular snap-shot. It is only one moment, one reaction, one idea of what to do next. And with these singular snap-shots, we authors weave a tale that stretches beyond each singular moment into a landscape of experience, into a panorama of personality, into an image of this person or that, a conceptualization of that timeline or this.
I’m trying, right now, to gather up all the little snap-shots I have of Saerwind, of Trystan, of Fenugreek, of Skai. I’m trying to understand what panorama there is to paint, what landscape there is to reveal. What collision to remark on?
And what of Maeve? What of Demeter? And, Wander? What of Nori and her friendship with Mentha?
What of Aedin, Azrael, and Sfier?
What of the Protectorate and the Town Setters and the Black Eye?
Or, said otherwise, what of the Protectorate and the People’s Government and Le Resistance?
All these singular moments made by singular people and singular moments in their existences all have to be brought together and sorted. All these snap-shots have to be cut and spliced and altered, faded to grey or sharpened, so that the panorama can come to life.
It gets harder when the panorama, you know, only exists in the eyes of a singular mind.
For whatever reason, coming to terms with multiple heads at multiple moments with multiple images and understandings is somehow easier for me. Or, perhaps, I only perceive it to be.
Perhaps, this is my entire problem.
I always think it is harder to see through one set of eyes, than many. And yet, I go on, thinking with one brain in one way – seeing through one set of eyes, always, one view of one moment.
A singularity, like every one else.
One piece of a whole.