Quantum Particles and Forking Paths

For some writers, their problem is that they have too few ideas. For others, like me, the problem is that they have too many ideas. They have so many ideas that they want to use, that they try to use them all, instead of stripping them away to reveal the beating heart of their story. If one were to take a look at their story, at all the ideas they wanted to explore, or wish they had, the chances are that it would be a considerable list. At least, it is for me.

In thinking about this, I’m reminded of this short story I read at university, The Garden of Forking Paths, by Jorge Luis Borges. It was about a man who was looking for another guy who was guarding the manuscript of someone else, a unique book. I’ll explain what was unique about it in a moment.

An interesting thing about quantum particles, first. They have this interesting property: they occupy several different states at once – in fact, all possible states at once. Until they are observed by someone, which is when they adopt one state. All these possibilities this particle has, which it actualises. It adopts all possible states, takes all possible paths, until we see it, and then it fixes itself into one state, discarding all possible others.

This, in a nutshell/tennis ball/conker/ping pong ball/fir cone/ad infinitum, is the dilemma of the writer when writing a story. All the possible states this as yet unformed story could adopt, all the roads it could possibly take – and the writer can only pick one. One. And in doing so, he or she discards all the other paths. And in doing so, always wondering if perhaps another path would have been better.

This is an idea The Garden of Forking Paths explores. Now, what’s unique about this manuscript is that it adopts the properties of the unobserved quantum particle: the author doesn’t choose one path, but takes them all. Hence the name of the story.

Now, there is a good reason that such stories do not exist. We couldn’t possibly comprehend stories that take all paths any more than the writer could write such stories. We’d never know which way it was going. We’d never know whether to trust the path we’re on lest it shift beneath our feet. And we’d never be able to trust the story itself, to entertain us, to guide us down its path. How could we, when it itself cannot and will not decide? Hard as it is, the writer must be forced to pick their path and forgo the rest. If he cannot, then perhaps they have no business writing.

But that is precisely the problem. Which path to choose? Which road to take? Which state to adopt? Where should I, as a writer, take my characters? Down the paths I feel they should take? The paths I would take myself? Paths complete antithetical to my own? Should I use them merely as actors and actresses brought onto a set formed in the pages of my manuscript to tell a story pointing towards a certain theme, a certain ideas?

Or perhaps I should not decide, radical as it may seem. Perhaps I should let the characters guide my way. Perhaps I should allow the story to behave like a quantum particle, and exist in all possible states, take all possible paths, until I observe it, and let it pick the state it wants, which may or may not be what I want, and accept the state it has chosen, the path it has taken, and erase from my mind all the other possibilities it could have taken, and trust the choice it has made.

Truth be told, I’m not trying to provide the answer to this question. Just an answer. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll help you to find yours.