Some authors say that when the writing is going well, their stories take on a life of their own: characters reveal new motivations that bring depth to their actions; physical description emerges that adds texture and reinforces meaning; the plot zigzags in ways that surprise and delight. I should be so lucky. Slogging through the umpteenth re-write, I grapple with a myriad of characters all shrieking for attention; "essential" exposition and back story that ooze endlessly into the piece; and subplots that sprout spontaneously to dilute and confuse the action. The result is a tangled mess of character, plot and theme.

Faced with such dire circumstances, there are those who seek solace through endless rounds of workshopping; others flee to the how-to-write aisle of the local library. I, however, go upstairs and rummage through my jewellery box until I find a lacy pewter disc, about an inch across, suspended on a black silk cord. Part good luck charm, part road map, it is my reminder that I really do know how to pull my story back under control.

The pewter disc is a Celtic knot, a decorative design developed by the ancestors of the modern day Irish, Scottish and Welsh people. Celtic knots come in many styles, but share one important trait – each is formed by a continuous line that twists and turns upon itself to create an elegant, geometrically balanced pattern. The Celtic knot has become my personal symbol of unity, that magical state that occurs when all parts of a story are working together.

A few years ago, a writing coach expressed concern about the length of my "short" stories, and suggested that I switch to novel writing. Not smart enough to take to take his advice – and the easy way out – I told him I was pioneering a new literary form known as the "epic short story." My coach, a well-respected humourist, was not amused. He insisted I would be unable to find a market for my epics. He was right – no one wants a 8,000-word "short" story.

But what to do? My raft of characters all brought a little something to the action, and besides, I needed them to support the byzantine plots I devised. And the plots had to be suitably complicated or the reader would get bored. Right?

It was Edgar Allan Poe who set me straight. One afternoon, as I sat reading Poe’s theories on the short story, I came across this idea: "A skillful literary artist . . . having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents . . . as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design."

Duh. Of course.

I slipped my bookmark between the pages and closed the book. Then I opened it again and looked at the bookmark. A friend who knew I loved reading – and that I am of Celtic descent – had brought me the bookmark from the British Isles. It is made of leather and embossed with a Celtic knot. As I ran my finger along the continuous line weaving in and out, forming the overall pattern, I realized that my characters should be walking the same sort of path as they move through a story – a single line, with enough twists and turns to keep things interesting, and an ending that connects back to the beginning of the story. And the loops along the route had to be planned and balanced to achieve my overall effect.

To prevent a story from becoming a rat’s nest, I would have to stick to essentials in terms of character and plot. I dug through my stack of manuscripts and pulled out a particularly thick one. Reading through it, I realized it consisted of two tales – one about a woman desperate to win Yellowknife’s annual Ugly Truck and Dog Contest, and another about her miscellaneous adventures living on a houseboat. The portion about her efforts to win the contest took the character somewhere; the houseboat segments unravelled pointlessly. I snipped the excess, then picked up the remaining strands and wove them into a single storyline.

Another of my epics, "The Prospector’s Trail," was about a young couple who move to Yellowknife to find work. The original draft included too many characters, all of whom were trying to force the story in different directions. I had to decide who the story was about. I chose the husband, Norman.

The story also lacked conflict. Since sprawl often creeps into my writing when I am trying to raise the stakes, I had to ensure the conflict grew out of the existing situation, rather than resorting to my usual ploy: inventing a subplot or childhood trauma to explain the hero’s need to succeed. Norman’s wife was already in the story, so I put her to work – in the first version she was happy to move to the Northwest Territories, in the second version, she is not. The early version of "The Prospector’s Trail" also included a quirky old man who did little more than provide comic relief. In the final version, Norman starts to identify with this long-time Yellowknifer, thus increasing the tension between him and his wife. Any loose threads – characters, scenes, descriptions or bits of dialogue which did not aid my protagonist in reaching his ultimate goal – were cut. The original draft was 8,600 words. The published version is less than half that size.

Be warned, however, that the quest for unity can turn the most scattered of authors into a single-minded slashing machine. So enthusiastic was I in my chopping of "The Ugly Truck and Dog Contest" that I axed a character who, it turned out, was essential to the plot. After trying to balance the story without him, I realized I had to weave him back in.

My Edgar-Allan-Poe-inspired Celtic Knot Theory of Literary Unity has helped me impose some discipline on my writing. I have produced a number of publishable stories as a result. Imagine my horror when I recently discovered that some Celtic knots consist of two intertwining lines. Could we interpret that as plot and subplot? Perhaps, but I’ve decided to leave the more complicated designs to the novelists, for fear of unleashing another of my epics. Now where’d I put that necklace . . . ?

Originally published in The Canadian Writer’s Journal, October 2002.

Copyright © Cathy Jewison, 2008. All rights reserved.