Waiting is both a part of my writing and my life. I like it sometimes such as at dusk when I sit on the dock by the lake and quietly dip my fingers in the water to amuse the sun fish that try to nip at them. In a book I'm reading right now, Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, the author insists that no good writer simply sits down and lets the words simply flow out of him or her as, if God were drinking a double-malt scotch next to them and dictating. No: good writing takes time, revisions, and waiting.
When I first read that passage on first drafts about three years ago I wrote in the margins "unless you have xanga." Xanga does not get my waiting times too often. This makes blogging easier than writing sometimes. After all, it is a difficult to let a phrase, an idea, or a moment out to play and see what it returns with. Sometimes it could be beautiful, like the second draft and third drafts that made up the conclusion to my Honors thesis, thoughts which then comprised the first academic paper I would ever give.
However, sometimes it stays away for awhile and sometimes, it never comes back. I have several uncompleted stories, the most memorable being one begun in fourth grade about a ghost child who couldn't go any further than page eight. Those ideas apply to life too: the girl or guy you meet who makes you try to tire out God by practicing unceasing prayer for the first time, the uncertainty that arrives with leaving your home and job, the ironic desire to finally just grow up -- however, those are the kinds of moments that need to be let go of the most.
Tonight at the lake, I lay down next to a nudging piece of
grass and watched for awhile before reached in to find a tiny snapping turtle hugging the shore
line. Sometimes, just sometimes, the waiting pays off.
Comments (1)
We have apparently been reading a lot of the same books! I read Bird by Bird last fall and have been continuously challenged and inspired by it ever since... and Gilead! Oh my word! That is a beautiful book. I love reading you...