Everything, Everywhere, Write #5 | The Nature of Writing
"We dig out the stories we want to read, the stories that the next generation of writers need."
A column about embracing and nurturing your creative journey daily, allowing for growth and flourishing while releasing guilt and self-doubt.
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I was on a tight deadline to arrive at a Buddhist temple and settle on a meditation cushion to observe my mind, which was buzzing higher and higher every time I had to brake. When I reached the final fork in the road, a big DETOUR sign confirmed I would not make it in time for the three bells that signal the start of zazen. Taking a deep breath, I turned right, changing my course to zigzag down the narrow road to Muir Woods. Why not? I hadn’t been there in years, it was the path that was open, and best of all, I was early enough to find parking. As is often true, la naturaleza provided an occasion for time to reflect on my life as a writer.
We write alone, but we draw strength from knowing others are putting pen to paper, fingers to keys, and their energy reaches out to us, as ours does to them.
We write and write and edit and get feedback; we cry and rewrite until we have an excess of words, face too many options, and are tangled in debris. “This is too much” is our unending mantra. We grudgingly admit this overwhelm feels normal, the struggle addictive. Tempted to capitulate, we do not stop until we have pulled out our true voice from the jumble of our mind and heart. To do this, we sort, compile, move chapter or verse or both, cry, view it from a wider angle, try new structures, curl into a ball, and seek fresh eyes to suggest feedback. We bravely cut small tendrils and inch toward the bigger branches that, when removed, open space to see what has taken root underneath and will link the words together as we had envisioned at the start. It will also sometimes fall right on top of us and demand we give up.
We crawl out, have a cup of whatever is our current soothing drink. We begin again, because to keep it to ourselves would be selfish and unfair. We give breath to ragged beginnings and unsatisfying endings; determining the life and death of each word on the page. When entering the editing phase, we confront our reliance on adverbs and adjectives that are pretty but camouflage a dry overused verb or noun. There should be a day each year when we gather around a fire and all read the beautiful scenes and dialogue and descriptions we edited out because they did not, no matter how hard we tried, belong in the story. Beautiful language in and of itself, we say with despair, is not enough sustain the trunk of a story. Yet sometimes a cut paragraph unexpectedly takes root and grows into a short story, poem, essay, novella, or book. Or not. Sigh.
Stories that are deemed to matter are judged by those with the power to control the narrative in writing venues and in the publishing world. As the Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says, “How [stories] are told, who tells them, when they are told, how many stories are told are really dependent on power.” For BIPOC writers whose narratives yearn to cross over rivers and across mountains, this means expending added energy protecting our bridges and paths from the elements wearing whatever superhero outfit we have on hand. Extra care and repair must be expended so that they don't collapse with us on them. Rain tests our bridges' solidity and our desire to expand the canon for future generations. We dig out the stories we want to read, the stories that the next generation of writers need. The obligation of representing entire nonmonolithic communities, sometimes two or three, can stun us into silence, worried we can never do justice to all.
Find the loamy dirt, put your ear to the earth and listen to her rhythm, knowing it is in you and around you, waiting for you to wipe your tears and wash your hands.
I remember the day I understood why writers drink and use drugs in excess, why they end their lives. What we write is not Hallmark. It is the banana slugs and mealy bugs that make others squeamish, and it requires compassion toward ourselves in a world that would rather see us throw ourselves from the bridge. We can become too careful and stay near the well beaten ground that is known and expected, refusing the unformed matter and infinite space that sparkle with the raw sharpness of the present moment.
This ache to tell our stories is ineffable, and requires us to hold tight to the branches we can only reach by standing on uneven rocks. We ascend toward our story on bark that is slippery with moss. We hang on at times, crying, looking out to others climbing for support and looking up to remember why we choose to write and who is waiting for our stories.
One minute I am writing about a redwood, and then I am kneeling to ponder a single fern frond, detailing each of its delicate green fingers that reached out and lured me in. I smile at the audacity of art, at its refusal to be contained by sidewalks and planter boxes. It writhes and squirms and bothers me until I pause to hear it out, listening to how a leaf shines, why moss is cool to the touch, and what causes the tiny chocolate pine cone to plant itself into moist earth. The bits of dark, rich soil that teem with microbes and tiny bugs expand my senses, and my story comes alive.
To reach the treetops where the whole story can be seen means to release what I believed was the treasure, the false idols of success and money, the worry I will never be good enough, the seeking of external validation when I know this recognition will only taunt my tender heart.
There are times when my options narrow, and I want to ignore the tightening in my chest that means I am caught in a conundrum. These times come when rejections stack up, my edits are unimaginative, and I am advised to explore a new structure or genre. Slowing down helps me avoid stubbing my toe on pride, stubbornness, or habitual patterns. Staying present at an unhurried pace means drawing on my patience as I see the completion of my story in the distance and want to rely on trite expressions, clichés, and the passive voice to get me there.
Sometimes the writing is nourished by the rainbow of marvelous literature that inspires and reminds me why I do what I do. Sometimes pausing to scan the landscape and observe the clouds changing form helps me correct my awkward sentence structure and eliminate redundant, unnecessary, and superfluous adjectives.
Go ahead, do it. Find the loamy dirt, put your ear to the earth and listen to her rhythm, knowing it is in you and around you, waiting for you to wipe your tears and wash your hands. Take a breath and send your brave self into caves and forests. We write alone, but we draw strength from knowing others are putting pen to paper, fingers to keys, and their energy reaches out to us, as ours does to them. One day they pull us up out of a muddy rut; the next day we inspire them to climb to a higher branch with a clearer view of what must be burned to make room for better.
We wait for the hot spots to cool down enough for us to chip away at the char; to see what has survived and might grow again. Our traumas heal into a fierce, gnarled trunk that supports the next scene or verse, these fire scars becoming part of our growth and strengthening our resolve to stay true to what can never be destroyed.
Feel free to leave your answer in the comments below.
How do you take care of yourself when you feel like “This is too Much”?
Where is your favorite place to allow the natural world to give you perspective?
Linda González’ (she/ella) writing and coaching practice is focused on supporting BIPOC to embark on a journey of love and healing for this and future generations. She works with BIPOC writers to claim their voice through a sanctuary program that includes coaching, writing sessions, editing, and craft workshops. She is the author of two books and has published many essays. Breaking Through Your Own Glass Ceiling is based on living a full-hearted life with healing at the core, despite daily inequities. Her award-winning memoir The Cost of Our Lives is a family story of unearthing secrets in search of redemption.
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