For as Long as Words Last

 

I still struggle as a writer. Most days my writing feels a bit feral, with words speeding by like wild cats—too fast for me to grasp the ones I want. Or the ink spills from my pen in messy smudges that might as well be a child’s finger painting. If I’ve bothered to outline, the ideas rove past any margins I’ve set and the words oscillate between the edges of the paper, hitting every line, roughly skittering against any plan I’ve had.

I’ve been told there are two kinds of writers—plotters and pantsers, or more updated terms—architects and gardeners. Essentially, one who does it right and one who figures it out as they go, which some say is wrong.

Gardeners, the term I tend to prefer, need intimate knowledge of the soil and the conditions. They must understand the seasons, the various plants, their needs, cycles, and growth patterns. A gardener doesn’t just throw everything in the garden and hope for the best.

There still must be a plan.

When I was in college some twenty-odd years ago, I had a debilitating and crippling issue with finishing things. Yet I wondered why my grades suffered. Too often, this happened with my writing. I possessed a deep love for writing but hadn’t yet discovered the skills of editing or rewriting for that matter.

Recently while going through thirty-odd years of files, I found some papers I’d written in college. The notes from instructors on each of them were the same even though they came from different classes and teachers, “Great ideas, but this work is incomplete” or “underdeveloped.”

At first, I got defensive. My gut reaction was “Nuh-uh.” Even now, I can feel my love for these ideas or concepts just like when they hit me all those years ago. Then I sat down to read the papers. Yikes. I’d fallen short of the actual assignments. I heard my teachers’ voices suggest that I visit the writing lab for tutoring. But I also heard my heart—How can you get good grades on rough drafts and not on the final draft?

I ended up hitting a brick wall with my writing not long after that “college miseducation.” On my own, I’d attempted my first novel. Determined I could write the next best seller, I got to work. I did the research. I spent long nights writing about my characters and plotting out my ideas. Mind you, I had no training, no idea what I was doing, and I’d barely finished reading a dozen books as an adult at this time. Plus, I still had this issue with finishing things. I’d allowed myself to become completely delusional.

My son, who was an avid and voracious reader, and by all accounts should be an editor at one of the Big Five Publishers, saw the effort I was putting in and overheard me say I wanted to quit my dead-end job. He perked up and asked if he could read what I’d written so far. I happily printed out a copy of the forty-four pages and waited for his glowing review. It didn’t take long for his reply.

He handed it back, and while looking me square in the eyes, with all seriousness said, “Mom, I mean this. Don’t quit your job. Please.”

I was devastated.

I didn’t have the urge to write again for a long time. That manuscript sat in a drawer, and then went in a box, where it sat for years before I reread it. But, when I finally did, I was grateful he’d been harsh. Eventually, I started reading and writing regularly again—and it held.

It’s been almost ten years since I’ve been writing again. This time instead of being delusional I’ve become obsessive. My first awful attempts were like gardening with unmarked packets of seeds – never knowing what would come out, if it was any good, or even what to do with it. Now, I know how to take some of those little story glimmers, and compost them into new stories, characters, and settings.

Today I know that all first drafts are incomplete and underdeveloped. Or as Anne Lamott says, all first drafts are shitty first drafts. At least mine are. I’ve learned how to dig a little deeper in that next draft, reach within me, find and pull the right words out, give them a little shake and see what falls to the ground. Then I study and sift the words to see what wants to be molded into something I can share with the world.

And how cool is it, that you can investigate your writing life and see so much potential like when you turn the soil in spring—knowing that no matter how long it’s laid dormant, you can now watch it come alive and crumble through your fingertips—knowing soon it will give life to something delicious for everyone to enjoy.

I still struggle as a writer. But every day, I get up and write my way through it. I hope that if you’re a writer, you do too.

Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash