WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #2
There is a hiking trail I take out of town that always brings me peace: the Atalaya Trail on the east side of Santa Fe. You drive to St. John’s College and park in “France”, (the parking lot furthest from the campus) and follow the signs. I like to stop about fifteen minutes into the walk at a grassy turn in the path under a giant ponderosa pine. You may know the spot I’m thinking of: there’s a large silver culvert back in the rocks and a trickle or gush—depending on the season—of water flowing through the verge. Today the water was a thick, frosted ice sheet in the bent yellow grass.
I have never felt the heavy writing impasse people call a block. On the contrary, a clean white page excites me. New pens with their sharp tips that scratch across my journal’s pages encourage me to keep my hand moving even when I have nothing to say. It is not beginnings that are hard for me; it is endings.
I spent all day Monday reformatting and printing my 104k-word ms. I ran out of toner, I ran out of paper. I started at 9am and worked until 5pm with only minor interruptions for cats-in-the-sun enjoyment and tea breaks. I loved Monday. I remembered why I decided to try to get DIZZY SUSHI published. It was because I enjoyed reading it again and again. It had my favorite people in it, snatches of my favorite poetry, and it was all mine. No one was telling me (yet, anyway) what to say or how to say it. I tweaked and fine-tuned. I read out loud and marveled at the turn of scenes. I relived the year I was in Japan, both heartaches and happiness.
And then I realized I didn’t want to let go. I was totally in love with the process. And even in this important dance of personal accomplishment for work well done in my own eyes, I was as stagnant as the ice in the hills. Beautiful ice. Layers frosted slowly into crystalline perfection. Going nowhere.
My friend and writing coach, Sarah Lovett reminds me that when DIZZY (www.whitespacecreative.com) is out the door, I will have a fresh rush of energy. I can’t imagine what that will be like. I have worked on this one manuscript for—I’m embarrassed to say it, but you probably already know—fifteen years. Of course there are other projects in the wings, waiting, looking patiently at the hours fanning by, hoping to hear their cue. But when you’ve only had a couple hours a week, in between having babies and developing a career, well, let’s add that up: 52 weeks/year x 15 years is 780 weeks. 2 hours per week is 1560 hours. And really, for many years I did not have 2 hours per week, but for the sake of argument, let’s say I did. Now this is cute. 1560 hours divided by say, 30 hours/week is exactly 52 weeks. One year. I have had this love affair with my first book for—minute added on top of minute—one year. Heck, that’s still in the honeymoon stage.
So I leave all my guilt behind and revel in the tall bent desert grass beside the icy culvert gazing at the blue shadows turning in the refracted light. I am going to enjoy every second of my nitpicking perfection because I know it will all melt soon.
