Primalsoup

Or, how I had a playlist, a Pinterest board, and three fake book covers—but no story

[Representative Image generated using AI]

Let’s be clear: I never said I was writing a structured novel. I said I was writing a novel. That’s different.

And by “writing,” I mean I have a Spotify playlist with 47 songs, all chosen to match the emotional arc of my protagonist, who may or may not still be unnamed.

The vibe? Immaculate.
The plot? Unavailable.

Pinterest, Fonts, and Fake Covers

My novel exists entirely in visual metaphor. It has a colour palette.
Aesthetic references of rainy bus stops, half-eaten bajjis, and women in printed nighties staring wistfully at the neighbour’s bougainvillea. Fashion mood boards. Architectural shots of 1950s Bangalore that serve no narrative purpose, but feel important.

I once spent four hours finding the exact font I wanted for the imaginary cover.
No title. No synopsis. But a very clear typeface vision.

And yes, I own ten editions of Pride and Prejudice, bought solely for the covers. It’s not like Jane Austen is going to pop in and fix the Darcy-Lizzie equation to reflect the realities of situationships and emotionally avoidant men. But still, I judge books by covers, and I am not sorry.

Before the Plot, There Was Vibe (and Nepo Baby Casting)

Long before there was a plot, honestly, before I even figured out what my protagonist does for a living, I had a working cast list. It featured a combination of hot-but-introspective indie actors, one stage performer from social media, and, I’ll admit it, an alarming number of nepo babies.

That’s when I had to stop and reflect.
Am I part of the problem?
A socialist in my youth. A believer in meritocracy. Surely not.

Anyway. I abandoned the casting spreadsheet. It was too painful. Also, the plot hadn’t caught up yet.

From Qual to Chaos: Putting on the Research Hat

This is where things took a turn. Because while the writer in me was building mood boards, the qualitative researcher in me showed up with a whiteboard and a Jungian framework.

In research, we often ask people to personify products and brands as characters. Archetypes. Animals. People. A favourite trick, especially when you want insight masked as metaphor. And, of course, I mapped every single one of my novel’s characters into Jungian archetypes.

My protagonist? The Everyman, attempting to become the Magician.
Her platonic best friend? The Sage, obviously.
Cliché? Absolutely.
Effective? More yes.

I know exactly what kind of fragrance the villain wears (a leathery oud with citrus top notes) and what kind of stationery the romantic lead hoards.
These things matter. They set the tone.

Atmosphere, But Make It Entirely Untethered From Plot

For instance, I know I have a critical scene set in Bombay on June 12th. Why? Because that’s when the monsoon arrives.

Now, you may reasonably ask: what is the role of the monsoon in the plot? Or, more fundamentally, what is the role of Bombay?

We’ll get to that.
Eventually.

Because the atmosphere is layered.
The aesthetic scaffolding is in place.
There is meaning, even if there is no movement.

What I Remember From Writing School

There were two rules I was told to always follow:

1. “Show, don’t tell.”
2. “If you introduce a gun in Act 1, it must go off by Act 3.”
   —A.k.a. Chekhov’s Gun, the idea that everything in a story must serve a purpose.

Lovely in theory.
Completely useless to me.

Because my novel contains no guns. Just feelings. And voice notes. And hibiscus plants with symbolic potential.

Everything I’ve introduced so far exists for the vibe.
Not the plot.

So here we are.

Top 10 Vibe Checks for My Novel (Still Plot-Free, Thanks for Asking)

1. Someone makes rasam while emotionally unravelling. They forget the mustard seeds, skip the tomatoes, and call it “experimental.” No one is fooled.
2. Amma says, “You don’t even know who you are,” and walks away. The silence that follows is louder than the pressure cooker whistle.
3. A forwarded voice note from a cousin triggers a three-day spiral. It includes the line, “Just thought this might help.”
4. Someone steps out of an autorickshaw dramatically during light drizzle. No destination. Just Vibes™ and unresolved trauma.
5. A broken hairclip appears in two separate flashbacks and one present-day scene. No one explains it. It just… means something.
6. A spiral notebook from college reappears, containing a bad poem called ‘Unsaid Things.’ The protagonist flips to that page at least thrice. She never reads it aloud.
7. A philosophical moment with filter coffee. Someone compares life to the watery dregs left behind in a stainless steel tumbler. It’s not profound, but it sounds like it could be.
8. “I’m fine” is said while eating thayir sadam straight from the fridge. The spoon clinks aggressively against the steel bowl. Tears optional.
9. A good morning message with a quote about healing is sent by an emotionally unavailable man. The protagonist reads it twelve times.
10. Absolutely nothing happens for 40 pages, but there are six metaphors, two internal monologues, and one dead hibiscus plant with recurring narrative significance.

And that, dear readers, is reason no. 127862818 for how not to write a novel.

P.S. This post has been brought to you by mashed potatoes, antibiotics, and one very swollen cheek.