Today, on the first day of the “winter” break, there’s much to be done. Christmas cards. Dry cleaners. Post office. Groceries. Arsenal vs. Man City rerun. But the impulse to write hit me and all else fell away. My body seems to know when it’s time to hit the keyboard. Or mini-me (my mini-lappie) or even a notepad. My body told me what to do today. Specifically, it let me know that it was time to write about this book:
Some books are like jewels, like my “portable feasts” books. This book is a perfect, sweet opal, full of charming vignettes. But it’s so much more than charm. It’s opalescent quality comes from these heartfelt, LIVED moments in real time. Discoveries were made, analogies were generated, faith was lost, faith was restored. Through it all, Dillard’s humor winks at us in daring and in cheekiness. “Aim for the chopping block”, she writes. The physical act is not the objective. Write towards the vision.
Once, in order to finish a book I was writing and yet not live in the same room with it, I begged a cabin to use as a study. I finished the book there, wrote some other things, and learned to split wood.
Simple conversation, on the surface, but rub it a bit and wisdom shines through.
(1) Living with writing: it’s a bit like having a child in the house – or a tenant. Sooner, rather than later, they will need your undivided attention, no matter what else of import may be occurring. You are the only one who can deliver that attention. You can’t hand it off to a nanny or a text message.
(2) Writing that occurs while you’re writing something else. The entire time I was working on my last post, I was thinking about this one. It’s awkward and annoying, but typical for me. One idea begets another. It’s actually one of the easier things to handle when writing for a specific objective.
(3) “Learned to split wood”. Mental links to physical. Mental activity tied to physical activity. That’s why writing and typing are so satisfying. I’m thinking and generating and rehearsing and arguing. In my head. My body is washing dishes, ironing, grading papers, talking with someone. Not always, mind you. Sometimes I just plain close my eyes and rehearse something in my head, or play with shapes.
The current’s got me. Feels like I’m about in the middle of the channel now. I just keep at it. I just keep hoping the tide will turn and bring me in.
God, when I was writing my research paper on “The Dream of Gerontius” by Newman, this is what it felt like. My vision had no shape, no objective other than to cram in other people’s thoughts and either agree or disagree. It was hard! I didn’t know what I wanted to do with it. But I just kept re-reading the poem – the sections where Gerontius or his soul were speaking. Making comments about what certain lines sounded like, what they reminded me of. I researched the Latin bits (the only part I truly enjoyed). So my first, second, and third drafts sounded more like marginalia than erudite scholasticism. But after about five pages of observations, translations, and kvetches, I had enough wood to grow a stump. I saw a couple of different patterns I could exploit. I started to chop some wood, aiming for the stump. I managed a decent paper. I tried to do right by the research process. My insights were scholarly, if not very far-reaching. I was happy with the end product. I had chopped enough wood. But I never enjoyed it. What I did enjoy were the small moments – a turn of phrase, the seamless fabric of quotes and original wording, shaping the vision, working with Latin. Lots of swimming and a lucky tide.
The written word is weak. Many people prefer life to it. Life gets your blood going, and it smells good. Writing is mere writing, literature is mere.
This is why people don’t like writing – because you can only be admired for it in hindsight. Never while it’s happening. While it’s happening, you are judged harshly for not doing something “active” and “useful”. When it’s all done, though, the tune changes. It’s a thing created. After it’s done, it looks like it was work. When you were working on it, you just looked lazy. This is the exception to the rule that you can see more clearly from a distance. Writing doesn’t look like much when it’s happening. But if you could see inside the brain, you’d see the synapses firing like crazy and blood flowing through the creative, then the analytical parts of the brain; one then the other then both. In teaching, this is why non-English people have trouble taking writing seriously.
You don’t realize how much work it is until you have to do it yourself. Then you realize you can’t do it well; it’s not as easy as it looks, an denigrate it even more. _____________________________________________________________