A writer, reloaded

Caught up with three old friends that I lost touch with over the past year today; it’s funny how easily months without news from them slipped by, unnoticed and unmarked. Then we connected and it was old times again.

A more interesting corollary to the reach-out-and-just-say-hi vignette was that I only called two of them. While on the phone with the second, a third friend, who I hadn’t thought about phoning today, yet missed, suddenly returned a message left in August.
If I believed in such phenomena I might consider that sudden callback a coincidence, but I don’t. Nearly everything happens for a reason–in fiction and in life.

Two more scenes wrote themselves. Several occasions I wondered why that happened again. Why for once instead of scrapping around like a dog for ideas or plot points, the problem was keeping pace with the stream hitting the page. But I banished those thoughts quickly, right as they surfaced. The less energy invested in questions without any answers–at least revelations I’m perhaps not ready for–the better.

I’m letting this wave carry me until she breaks against the sandy shoal.

Had the sort of day I could relive again. Woke up, made breakfast, did the decaf coffee thing, and wrote. And then suddenly it was lunch, so I ate, wrote for a few more hours, and napped with Oedipus. Grabbed dinner to go and edited the day’s pages. Now I crave beer.

Today marks two weeks on a project I restarted with a much hesitation. Curiously, it was much easier to come back–once committing, anyway–than it was setting the manuscript down nearly a year ago. To say that the first day was like never ditching the story would be a lie. Still, I have been amazed how quickly my feel for what’s on those pages returned. When it really hums I hear the line as I’m typing it. More importantly, the holds keeps appearing when I reach for them, and they reveal themselves at moments when I’m not thinking about writing hooks to launch the characters forward. In fact when I start considering what the door into the next scene might look like, they shut, and the scene breaks down.

This type of experience is very new to me. Maybe I wasn’t ready for a ride like this in January, so I resisted climbing on board. Or maybe I just fought what stared me in the face because I couldn’t recognize it. I lacked the necessary trust in the process and turned the very momentum working with it could generate for me against myself.

Even the usual fears are different. A typical concern: whether the story has merit and is worth my time. Now I’m starting to think the reason this one didn’t let me go is because there’s something driving the scenes that’s bigger than my insecurities.

Which is even scarier.

Winter started today. Friday the temperature reached sixty-six degrees, so the shift was overdue. Nothing worse than Florida weather at a Jersey elevation. Might even see some snow overnight. Good times.

The surrender mantra whilst writing helped quite a bit this weekend; I chanted it often. Funny how the simplest tokens often make the biggest differences in productivity.

Though I planned alternating between a brand new project and another manuscript shelved last January, after a few false starts with the abandoned tale earlier in the week, I decided to let the story roll on longer. While the ending exists on paper, as it has from nearly the beginning, I have no idea how to reach that point. The fun is letting the characters drive there, instead of placing them in a car on a collision course with their nemesis, scene after scene.

Saturday night a faculty member celebrated a birthday and marked the occasion with a party on campus. Talking to another faculty member–this one working on a MFA in Creative Writing–I remembered why I’m so poorly suited for formal instruction, as I avoid analytic or critique based discussions about what I love above all. I’d rather write–even badly–than figure out what the hell a writer meant by their work or how their catalog stacks up against the masters.

This is not to suggest that creative writing instruction is foolish, or unnecessary. Certainly teachers must demonstrate proficiency in those areas. How else can they lead inspiring discussion if they themselves do not have the tools for devising them? For a writing instructor to draw from the critical process makes sense. For me the prospect is not very palatable.

I’m no writing teacher, is all I’m saying.