The Long but Necessary Way

Yesterday's lesson in Write into the Heart of Your Story was all about taking the long way 'round, which seems to describe much of my life, writing or otherwise.

In grad school a few years ago, I sent a very rough draft of an essay to my writing mentor. I knew it was a hot mess, but I also hoped that it wasn't quite as bad as I thought it was. After all, that had happened to me before: I'd submitted something with the disclaimer that it was far from finished, only to get feedback that it seemed quite close to being a final draft. Happy surprise! I hoped for a similar dispensation on the hot mess essay.

Unfortunately, my mentor told me -- in the kindest way possible (and I mean that sincerely, not sarcastically) -- that the piece was more of a jumbled mess than I'd feared. Damn.

He then introduced to to that quote above, from Edward Albee's play The Zoo, and told me:

"Maybe this is your long but necessary way."

The long but necessary way. Yep, that's my way.

Some examples...

My main work-in-progress is an essay collection that I started to write in 2009. It took me several major revisions and a full year before I knew what those first essays wanted to be. It's four and half years later, and I'm still trying to figure out what else goes into the collection. (With any grace from the muse, I will finish a full first draft of the collection in January. I'm spending that month here, and I'm committed to making it count.)

My essay "Sugar Baby" initially included passages about gathering tomatoes in my backyard garden and excitement about a potential road trip. In fact, those passages sparked the whole essay. But none of that made it into the final draft, which ended up being about something else entirely.

It took me more than four years to find the true heart of my essay "Love and Silverware." When I finally did understand what that piece is really about, I realized that the meaning had been staring me in the face forever. It was such an integral part of the fabric of my life that I couldn't see it for a long time.

This is why I don't despair anymore when an essay or story misbehaves, or when I can't get a handle on what it is and where it's going. I know that eventually, if I'm writing what's asking to be written, I'll find my way.

The path to the heart of your story might be straight and true, like an arrow. Or it might be a winding country drive on a lazy afternoon. You might sprint to your destination, or you might wander. You might get lost along the way, but that's no cause for alarm. Your story knows the way into its own heart. All you have to do is follow.

I'm not saying that the long but necessary way is the best way or the most efficient way, but it's hard to argue with what's necessary.

Comments

[nikkiana]

Precisely what I needed to hear today, thank you. I find that often one of my struggles with writing is that when it starts to wander off of the path that I thought I was trying to go down, I get flustered with it and quit when really what I should be doing is keep writing.