With great pleasure we bring you our long time collaborator’s, Topi Lepojärvi’s text exploring the dimensions between the theory of storytelling and the act of storytelling. This exceptional text by Topi weaves the reader into theory while at the same time immersing her into a seamless story. We hope you enjoy this as much as we did!

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On Authors, Architects & Gardeners by Topi Lepojärvi

George R. R. Martin once divided authors into “architects” and “gardeners”. His idea was that an architect plans everything ahead. They design everything in their story before they even start writing. A gardener, on the other hand, has a general idea what kind of seeds they have. But they do not know exactly what kind of a tree grows out of them.

In his interview on Tim Ferriss’ YouTube channel, Neil Gaiman said that while he “can be an architect” if he has to, he’d “rather be a gardener”.

I felt I could relate to his words.

Like many others, I was first inspired to write fantasy stories by the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. By the monolithic history and mythology of Middle Earth. By the intricate cultural details and ambitiously logical worldbuilding.

But that finished, seamless novel never came to me.

Maybe the task of planning a 1000 pages ahead was too much. Maybe it was too much to create definite main characters and commit to writing everything from their perspective – and indeed, everything they perceive. Maybe I simply took no joy in such self-serious writing. Writing that felt more like crossing boxes, one preplanned scene after another.

When I encountered the stories of Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett and others, a weight was lifted off my shoulders: It was possible to simply have an idea and see where it leads. To follow, not knowing where the story would lead you. To not write everything the characters experience, if you didn’t feel it. To have fun with the act of writing.

The important thing was to start somewhere.

I am writing this as someone who shares fate with all those who are not sure where to start. How to construct their book. Where to even get the ideas.

The ideas can be anywhere.

Imagine someone sitting in a cafe, writing on their laptop, much like I am now.

Only, they are older. Approaching middle age. And they are not writing fairytales, they are working on some Excel sheets for their company.

They have a coffee near them that has already gone cold.

They are stuck on their task. Watching out through the window.

The trees are swaying in the wind. It reminds them of something. The sky is gray. The man – not necessarily a man, of course – watches as the leaves rustle in the breeze.

He’s no longer inside.

He sees the trees sway, but the wind is harder now, and louder. It screams at him. Over the sound of the wind, there is another voice. Someone yelling his name.

He turns to look at the person shouting. It’s a girl, some 12 years old.

Suddenly he realizes he’s 10 again. This is a memory, he thinks. A daydream. This is what happened on that day.

But that was long ago. It can’t be happening now.

Yet the wind is cold and cruel against his face, and he knows it’s real.

“They are coming!”, shouts the little girl, and he knows she’s right. He can hear them, riding the storm in the horizon.

“Papa said to get everyone inside”, says the girl, and pulls his arms.

He nods. He knows what to do.

They run through the fields until they come to the farm. There is a cellar close to the main building, and towards it they run. The wind screams, tugs and pulls his clothes, and something screams with it in an atonal countermelody. He dares not look behind. He’s afraid of what he might see.

The cellar door is close now, and he can see his father on the doorstep. His father’s face is pale as he’s motioning them towards him.

But the boy, who’s really a middle aged man, who’s really an old man, knows how this ends.

The screams grow louder, and now he can hear the voice of a little girl among the cries.

…He wakes up.

He’s sitting in the cafe. The farm is gone. The wind has died down a bit. Around him, some customers are shooting unsure glances at him, startled by the commotion.

He looks at his laptop, then outside.

The wind is the normal kind. The natural kind. No one conjures it, no one rides it.

But that wasn’t just a dream, either. He knows.

He’s lived too long (so much longer than you might think) to allow himself to dwell on such foolish hopes.

The dream was an omen.

—

…There. Maybe it’s not a story that will lead anywhere. Maybe it’s not the best beginning there is. 

But it’s a start.

Already, we know that the man who is older than he looks has a lively imagination. We know the dream is foreboding something, something he has met in his past. When something dramatic happened to his family. Something or some things rode the storm. A lot of “somethings” we want to know more about.

An entire world could be built around that story. Maybe this happened in the Middle Ages, in an open bazaar. Maybe it wasn’t a cafe in this world, at all. And now, you’re worldbuilding.

When you start with anything, there is a very real chance it turns into something.

As the God speaks in Goethe’s Faust: 

“Sees not the gardener, even while buds his tree,

Both flower and fruit the future years adorning?”

Of course, there exists the risk of painting yourself into a corner. Of the story becoming a convoluted mess. 

Indeed, I had the structure of this text ready in my head before I even started writing. A mere seed of a tree will never become a cathedral or a skyscraper. But I didn’t know exactly what would happen, if I started writing.

If you nurture and water the story, it may become a grand oak tree. 

Or, it may simply become a rose; simple and beautiful, born from a simple and beautiful idea. More detailed than any blueprint.

It’s definitely worth finding out.