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Ode to the Patient Writer

The level of my patience sometimes follows the phases of the moon. I wax and wane between “my time will come” to “what if I miss it?”

A recent post of mine led to a nice discussion and mention of Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life. And, in picking up her book today (during a quiet half hour), I read two quotes from the first chapter that struck a chord with me. Annie Dillard’s words reminded me that a writer must not only be patient with the work, but also indifferent to it.

On the subject of time:

“I takes years to write a book – between two and ten years. Less is so rare as to be statistically insignificant.”

“Out of a human population on earth of four and a half billion, perhaps twenty people can write a book in a year. Some people lift cars, too. Some people enter week-long sled-dog races, go over Niagara Falls in barrels, fly planes through the Arc de Triomphe. Some people feel no pain in childbirth. Some people eat cars. There is no call to take human extremes as norms” (p. 13-14).

On the writer’s feeling about his or her work:

“There is neither a proportional relationship, nor an inverse one, between a writer’s estimation of a work in progress and its actual quality. The feeling that the work is magnificent, and the feeling that it is abominable, are both mosquitoes to be repelled, ignored, or killed, but not indulged” (p. 15).

I struggle with both the panic that a story not published soon will be a story out of date and the anxiety of whether or not what I write is good — or, good enough. I love reading the thoughts of other writers who have gone before me, and finding truth and insight in their words, especially as I enter into a new year with new writing aspirations.

***

Annie Dillard, The Writing Life (New York, NY: Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 1989), p. 13-15.

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Do What you Imagine

Wednesday’s word of the day, quantum (from Wordsmith.org) illustrates, in one word, my perception of time lately: there isn’t much of it.

Instead of crafting a quick story for a Wednesday’s Word post, I searched for a quote that might give color to the word. I found one that indirectly speaks to my desire to write and the courage it takes to keep me writing, even when the inspiration flickers out.

Today’s word:

quantum. noun.
1. A quantity or amount.
2. A portion.
3. A large amount.
4. The smallest amount of something that can exist independently.

“Doing is a quantum leap from imagining. Thinking about swimming isn’t much like actually getting in the water. Actually getting in the water can take your breath away. The defense force inside of us wants us to be cautious, to stay away from anything as intense as a new kind of action. Its job is to protect us, and it categorically avoids anything resembling danger. But it’s often wrong. Anything worth doing is worth doing too soon.”

— Barbara Sher, American business owner, career counselor, author.

A new year approaches. And,2010 calls for fresh goals but demands repeat determination.

Don’t just imagine, Someday I’d like to be a writer.

Write.

Because “anything worth doing is worth doing…” now.

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Purge the Plastic, Not the Paper

You’d think I was pregnant, the way I’ve been rummaging through drawers, sifting through papers, and filling garbage bags full of “unnecessary plastic objects” (to quote one of my favorite singers, Nanci Griffith).

The need to purge came on strong just before the holidays. We moved furniture to open up a room downstairs and uncovered a host of lost toys (not missed once), and I found myself dreaming of a dumpster. I even considered tossing some of the writing magazines and literary journals I’ve accumulated in the last year.

But, I knew the garbage bin wouldn’t see draft, nor final, of any of my earlier writings: old essays, true stories, and short shorts.

When I got serious about writing and heard that old adage – a writer should never throw out anything, even if she think it stinks – I wondered, how can you possibly keep everything?.

Still, I saved each story and every quick write in more than one place. I printed a few cherished essays and placed them in a big binder that’s secured between my nightstand and my bed.

Mine.

The first few pieces I wrote were all memoir, too risky to publish, that pried their way out of my mind’s dark corners. When I shared them with other writers and got great feedback on one or two, I thought, what if I publish them? But the purpose of those pieces was not to show up in glossy print on the white pages of a literary magazine. My earlier writings de-cluttered my brain and cleared the way for new narratives to take shape.

And, as writers who came before me predicted, bits and pieces of those earlier essays have bled into other stories. An old familiar figure became the face of a new character. The real-life moment I walked into a nursing home wove its way into a fictional short story where my emotions as memory gave way to imagined conversations.

Isn’t that how fiction works? We write what we know. Our experiences and memories interact with our imagination. We give new life to an old character, reshape the insides of an old house.

We write a new ending.