Five Years
Over the last half-decade (!) I’ve marked years of writing in May. It’s the month when I did a test run assignment (which was so awful it made me doubt that I should even start), and the month when I conducted my first for-real interview (which was so wonderful that I kept going). So May is when I pause and reflect on the last year of writing, collecting the main lessons of the year and writing them down as advice to that first-year self. The tricky thing about this round of reflections is that I’ve not properly published a single word in a year.
It’s not for lack of trying or hoping. Oh, there was trying. Oh, the hopes were high. Even so, I find myself at the end of a year with nothing outward to show for it. If I could’ve worked, thought, prayed, talked my way out of this reality, I would’ve. I’ve written plenty of words (in journals, in workbooks, in emails on behalf of other people’s businesses), but none of them have been properly published, and most of them shouldn’t be.
Life is long, I know. Dry spells are far from a disaster, I know. But I also know that this year has been frustrating, clarifying, humbling, and long.
So I’ve tried to sit with it. I’ve spent more time in bookstores than in previous years (not sure why; maybe it’s just to be around the publishing of words if now is not my moment to do it myself), I’ve read books that have been on my list for years, and I’ve listened to writers on writing at length. I made a pilgrimage to see Emily Dickinson’s house, only to find it closed for repair. Fitting. Instead, I walked down the street to visit her grave and saw the gifts visitors left for her, a collection of pennies and pebbles balanced atop her gravestone along with a single pencil stub. Goodness in a quiet graveyard, even when (literal) doors are shut.
What’s the use of this year? I don’t know. I imagine that in five years I might have some idea, but for right now I don’t know. In some ways, it feels like a waste of hope and effort, but at the same time I wouldn’t go back to tell my first year self to hope less, or to put less effort in. Nor could I tell her that God isn’t still both wise and thoroughly good. I think I’d just try to tell her that if she wants to be in the trenches, she’d better get used to mud and find some songs to sing. Here are the other things I’d tell my first year self, in no particular order:
1. Journaling is not actually of the devil, and for your own sanity you should add it to your weekly pattern. You’ve been avoiding it because you’re afraid it will exacerbate your navel-gazing tendencies, but it actually helps get it out of your system. Some writers say they don’t know what they think until it’s on paper. You tend to know exactly what you think, but have a hard time admitting it until it’s on paper. And having those thoughts on paper means that you can’t squirm around them – whether they represent truth, stinginess, unexpected tenderness, a spiral, or immense progress. Paper and ink and the cold light of day won’t let you get away with much.
2. You can write both earlier and later than you initially thought. If it feels impossible to write for an hour (an hour! as tired as I feel it may as well be running a marathon), tell yourself you’ll only work for five minutes. Chances are once you’ve gotten started, you’ll stay at the desk for as long as possible. Relatedly: When time to write is precious, you get much less precious about the process. You’ve never been particularly delicate about it, but lack of time and open doors will strip the last shreds of an ideal process from your imagination. You’re better for it.
3. When in doubt, go for a swim. Past self, you should start swimming as soon as possible. In addition to joining hot tub conversations with the mostly-retired patrons of a local gym, getting out of your head and into the water is a Good Thing on every level.
4. Let delight have a word. Your very smart aunt has noted that most of the world exchanges delight for quick entertainment. Well, after a series of long years, delight is insisting on having a word. And it’s everywhere – in spotting a pod of dolphins, in the way guitars sound silvery when played by certain musicians in a certain pub, in artifacts stowed in the back of a pawn shop, in good questions, and in the way Malcolm Guite talks about poetry (or anything else, for that matter). It’s always there, whether or not busy passersby slow down long enough to take notice.
There is a gratitude in delight that can’t be found in confectionary entertainment, flash-in-the-pan validation, prestige, or a pile of hearts that will be stale by the next day. In contrast, delight runs deep and true, as sturdy as a quiet Sunday dinner. And it may just steer you out of the doldrums.
5. Narrative and meaning are too much to ask – of a trip, a conference, a year, a person. I take that back. You can ask. But expecting answers (or at least linear progress) from a few events or even twelve short months is setting yourself up for heartache. Looking for a tidy narrative arch only makes every false start feel more infuriating, more wrong.
You’ve done a lot of listening to writers on writing in the last year, and a recurring theme has been that so little of writing is about the writer, and so much of it is about service. In the aforementioned journals, one of the few publishable conclusions that bubbled to the surface was that you need to stop thinking of this venture as a hero’s journey, and start thinking of it as a journeyman’s daily travail. The star of a hero is always rising, any obstacle simply an inconvenience on the path to greatness. I doubt a journeyman painter ever considered greatness. He finished his work, and moved to the next town. A journeyman’s work is rarely found in museums, but he made individual homes more lovely, gave families the ability to remember a loved one’s face for a little bit longer. This humbler, more plodding-paced work is more than good enough, I think.
6. Being quiet – even if not by choice – for a long period of time helps you trim the fat. Every story is not important to share, or even yours to tell. As much as you love new information, you don’t actually need to hear every voice. This has been the year of the Great Social Media Break, and the sudden silence of yourself and a thousand other voices was unnerving for about five minutes, then peaceful. You describe it to friends as standing on a hill that has a tunnel carved into it. When a train passes through, you can feel the rumbling, but it’s not roaring directly in your ears. Even better, you’re not trying to shout to someone at the other end of the tunnel. In the sunshine, you can hear the outside world loud and clear, and the need to comment vanishes on the breeze.
So when in doubt, keep your powder dry. It may turn out that the story you’re wanting to tell is not as wild, amazing, funny, or revolutionary as you thought – it was the glow of the telling that was drawing you. To serve the reader, hold off for a minute and listen intently. Don’t rush to telling.
7. Turns out the cliche is true: The only thing worse than writing is not writing. It’s better to do a little something every week to move a story forward – one phone call, one archive search, one sentence – than to arrive at the end of a week with no gathering to show for it.
8. Acts of faith are not nearly as simple as upending your life and moving across the ocean. Now, sometimes faith does upend your life. But it’s not all signs and wonders, and waiting for those can be a cop-out. Sometimes faith is in the steady planting of seeds, in the decision to make a decision. You’ve chickened out of faith by waiting for an earth-shattering change to land in your lap – now it’s time to stand up, pick up that faith, and start walking. Time after time in 2022 the phrase, “He will go with you” (see Exodus 3 and about a hundred other places) has come up. Who’s to say He won’t go with you even in the tiniest step? Even if it’s uphill in mud as thick as molasses?
A few years ago, I noticed that in my leisure time I was gravitating away from love songs and more towards stories that were smaller – and somehow bigger. This was partly due to a particular set of hopes petering out, but I think it was also about growing up. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that this refreshed interest in small-but-big stories, this grounding of my grand visions might be the growing up of this work.
Dear first year self, I wish I had a tidy conclusion for you, but this year defies any ribbon or theme. For now: Here’s to working quietly and with more humility. Here’s hoping.