The Story of a Story: A Tale in Eight Chapters

The Story of a Story: A Tale in Eight Chapters

By Barbara Linn Probst

Each novel I’ve written has had its own “origin story”—that is, the tale of how it came to exist. Looking back at the evolution of each book, I’m always struck by the strange and unexpected way that disparate elements came together to form a new entity that no single element, by itself, could have produced. So, too, for my newest book, The Color of Ice.  The story of its birth is a story too—with plot, characters, time, and place.

CHAPTER ONE. September, 2017.  I took a trip to Iceland with my partner Tom. It was a place that neither of had visited, and seemed intriguing. We went to the places that most of the tourists visit, as well as others that were off-the-beaten-path. I took dozens and dozens of photos, with no aim other than the hope of capturing some of the country’s breathtaking beauty. I had no agenda, no thought that any of this would ever be part of a novel—in fact, I was still at the stage of taking writing workshops while I struggled with a fledgling manuscript that I eventually abandoned. 

CHAPTER TWO. February, 2020.  Fast forward to 2020, as I was preparing for the publication of my debut novel, Queen of the Owls. On impulse, and needing a break from book promotion, I decided to do something that sounded like a fascinating way to spend an afternoon—have a glassblowing lesson at a studio in a nearby town. I signed up for a spot at the end of the month. 

While I was having my lesson, the idea struck me that glassblowing could be a terrific frame for a novel, following the artistic themes of Queen of the Owls and my second book, The Sound Between the Notes, which was already in its final editing. I asked Kathleen, the instructor, if I could return to shadow her at work and learn more. She agreed, and I returned a week later to watch, listen, and photograph the process of creating a glass vessel. As Kathleen explained about the punti rod and the punti scar, it struck me that this was a perfect metaphor for the relationship between parent and child, mentor and pupil—or even between a character who helped someone else find her true beauty, who would then need to break free in order to survive. An idea began to form in my mind.

CHAPTER THREE. March, 2020.  I knew that I needed to learn more about glass art, so I planned a trip to the Corning Museum of Glass in upstate New York, which also offered workshops and demonstrations. The trip was set for April—but didn’t happen because of the Covid lockdown in mid-March that took so many of us by surprise. Travel was cancelled, museums were closed, and anything that involved blowing into a pipe was off the table. My research came to a halt.

CHAPTER FOUR. April-June 2020.  All I had was an idea about glass—no story, no characters, no setting, no theme. There seemed to be nothing further I could do. 

During those long weeks of isolation, I found myself drawn to stories in the news about surprising acts of kindness and generosity—moments when someone responded and simply gave to another person, with no expectation of personal gain. It seemed to affirm a goodness and nobility in the human spirit, there in each of us, and gave me hope during these weeks of fear and uncertainty. I thought: “That’s the only thing worth writing about.” I had a vision of a moment, a gesture, an act of compassion and unconditional love that the giver didn’t think she was capable of. What would it be to write a story that would lead us there?  

I made notes, tried a few openings, but it was all pretty haphazard and formless, the way early story attempts usually are. Oddly, however, the image of the blue icebergs I’d seen three years earlier, at a lagoon in southern Iceland, arose in my mind. Ice and glass. They seemed alike. What if an artist wanted to capture those icebergs in glass? And what did that have to do with my story idea about someone discovering, through an act of compassionate love, that she was capable of real goodness?

The elements were there, but not yet connected.

CHAPTER FIVE. July, 2020. As Covid restrictions eased a bit during the summer, I made that postponed trip to Corning. My visit included an afternoon in the Rakow Library, the largest research library in the world devoted entirely to glass. I’d conferred with a librarian to let her know what I was interested in—in particular, the studio glass movement and whether there was any glass art around the motif of blue ice—and when I arrived, a cart heaped with material was waiting for me. 

Among that material, there was a pamphlet about a Dutch glass artist named Peter Bremers. To my astonishment, he had done exactly what I’d been imagining, although in Antarctica rather than Iceland—created glass sculptures to depict the blue icebergs. 

CHAPTER SIX. August, 2020.  When I returned home, I found Peter Bremers’ website, wrote to him, and he wrote back at once. We spent an hour on Zoom and, over the ensuing months, became good friends.  Peter has been incredibly generous with his time, photos, and insights. Not only did he answer all my questions about how he created his sculptures, he also helped me understand why. Other glass artists and photographers were equally kind, open, and helpful, but Peter was the one who let me know that my idea wasn’t crazy after all.

CHAPTER SEVEN. Fall-winter 2020. As most of us will remember, the summer of 2020 did not mark the end of Covid. Like many others, I spent long months that fall, winter, and into the following spring in relative isolation. What that isolation offered, however, was the opportunity to immerse myself in a kind of “story bubble”—to become wholly immersed in my emerging story world. It was a strange and magical time, as if I was simply the vehicle for the story, as if it had enchanted me and made me as its scribe. As devastating as Covid was, I don’t think this experience—and the book—would have been possible without it.

CHAPTER EIGHT. September 2021 and January 2022.  Finally, after fifteen months of the pandemic—with vaccinations, masks, and protocols to mitigate risk—it seemed reasonable to plan another trip. Europe still seemed problematic, so Tom and I decided to go to Alaska, a place that seemed both domestic and remote. We spent a week in Fairbanks in early September, too early in the season for the northern lights which I’d been longing to see, since they have an important role in the novel— fully written by then, though still in revision.

Another impulse, and suddenly we’d committed to a return trip at the end of January. There would be a much better chance of seeing the northern lights at that time of year, although we were warned that temperatures could easily fall to twenty or even thirty below zero.

No matter! We returned, and did indeed see the legendary lights. I was so glad, because it never felt right to write about them, without having actually seen them. On the way to Alaska, we stopped for a few days in Seattle, where I not only was able to see the incredible glass art at the Chihuly Museum, but also had another glassblowing lesson. The Color of Ice had already been written, but now it was becoming real.

I could have added other chapters to this tale. Reaching out to glass artist Katherine Gray, co-host of the Netflix series Blown Away, whose third season premiered at just the right moment. Visiting the Schantz Gallery in the Berkshires, when I was able to see and touch some of Peter Bremers’ blue sculptures “in person.” Getting to meet Eliza Reid, First Lady of Iceland, whose recent book Secrets of the Sprakkar, confirmed that I’d gotten the country right.

Every book has its origin story. And the more I write, the more I feel that it really is a kind of miracle how these seemingly random moments—some of which we call “lucky” like finding Peter’s art, and some of which we call “unlucky” like the pandemic shutdown—come together and light our path.

Now, over to you.  If you’ve written a book or are working on one, published or unpublished,  was there a moment that lit a special spark and showed you the path ahead?

—

Barbara Linn Probst is an award-winning, Amazon best-selling author of contemporary women’s fiction living on an historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. Her acclaimed novels Queen of the Owls (2020) and The Sound Between the Notes (2021) were gold and silver medalists for prestigious national awards, including the Sarton Award for Women’s Fiction and the Nautilus Book Award. The Sound Between the Notes was also selected by Kirkus Reviews as one of the Best Indie Books of 2021. Barbara has published nearly sixty essays on the craft of writing for sites such as Jane Friedman and Writer Unboxed. The Color of Ice is her third novel. Learn more on www.BarbaraLinnProbst.com or follow her on Facebook and Instagram.

THE COLOR OF ICE

“Exquisite” (Lisa Barr, New York Times best-selling author of Woman on Fire) and “utterly engrossing” (Katherine Gray, cohost of the Netflix series Blown Away), The Color of Ice will wrap you in its spell, all the way to its unforgettable ending.

Set among the glaciers and thermal lagoons of Iceland, and framed by the magical art of glassblowing, The Color of Ice is the breathtaking story of a woman’s awakening to passion, beauty, and the redemptive power of unconditional love.

The stunning new novel by the author of award-winning novels Queen of the Owls and The Sound Between the Notes . . .

Cathryn McAllister, a freelance photographer, travels to Iceland for a photo shoot with an enigmatic artist who wants to capture the country’s iconic blue icebergs in glass. Her plan is to head out, when the job is done, on a carefully curated “best of Iceland” solo vacation. Widowed young, Cathryn has raised two children while achieving professional success. If the price of that efficiency has been the dimming of her fire—well, she hasn’t let herself think about it. Until now.

Bit by bit, Cathryn abandons her itinerary to remain with Mack, the glassblower, who awakens a hunger for all the things she’s told herself she doesn’t need anymore. Passion. Vulnerability. Risk. Cathryn finds herself torn between the life—and self—she’s come to know and the new world Mack offers. Commitments await her back in America. But if she walks away, she’ll lose this chance to feel deeply again. Just when her path seems clear, she’s faced with a shocking discovery—and a devastating choice that shows her what love really is.

 

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing