That self-interruption is a beautiful thing. It says: the mind can be two places at once. (Many trains are running simultaneously in there, consciousness aware of only one at a time.)

So, as we enter this description, we’re asking, somewhere in the back of our reading mind: How is this description of a road going to turn out to be essential, i.e., not wasteful?

The movie producer and all-around mensch Stuart Cornfeld once told me that in a good screenplay, every structural unit needs to do two things: (1) be entertaining in its own right and (2) advance the story in a non-trivial way.

This is an important storytelling move we might call “ritual banality avoidance.” If we deny ourselves the crappo version of our story, a better version will (we aspirationally assume) present itself. To refuse to do the crappo thing is to strike a de facto blow for quality. (If nothing else, at least we haven’t done that.)

mental vacuity.

In workshop we sometimes say that what makes a piece of writing a story is that something happens within it that changes the character forever. (That’s a bit Draconian, but let’s go with it as a starting place.) So, we tell a certain story, starting at one time and ending at another, in order to frame that moment of change.

Nikita had nothing to do, and as usual in such circumstances he drowsed, making up for much sleepless time.

starts out small and devoid of intention and begins to expand, organically, reacting to itself, fulfilling its own natural energy.

That’s really all a story is: a limited set of elements that we read against one another.