Writing
I am dreaming of writing again. Dreaming again; not writing again.
I did write a novel once. I wrote sporadically for five years. I would set aside a block of time - six weeks one year, 4 weeks another. For the first three weeks of each session I would try and try and fret and pace and finally get totally frantic. And then finally it would come in one huge blast. I would think the scenes, hear the characters talk, and what was in my head came out my fingers onto the typewriter.
I thought the thoughts of my main character, during those writing moments. Disconcerting. Complete empathy. My self faded away and my focus was complete. And then, with the completion of whatever 50 page section I was working on, it would screech to a halt and stop. Done. Nothing until my next block of time, until the next year.
And then I finished it, proofread it, sent it out, and never looked back. The agent knew it would be a "hard sell;" knew I should revisit it, reimagine it. Fred Busch said I should be true to my vision and how dare anyone tell me it should be the way I wrote it. But I think I knew in my heart that what I had written was basically a first draft. It was too intense, too painful, both to be read by others, or rewritten by me. I had imagined what I would be like as a different kind of woman doctor who happened to have the same medical problem that killed my mother. I went there, I did that, and I didn't want to do it again.
That's not to say there wasn't anything good about the book. Editors wrote nice things as they rejected it for publication. Friends also said they like it. I never sat down and read again myself.
But that character isn't dead in my mind. And I've mapped out her extended family, going back to the nineteenth century. A distant ancestor was nurse to a blind man; she knew all the herbal medicines there were. A grandfather was a country doctor who adopted all the unwanted children he delivered. A cousin lives on a Vermont farm. Her daughter is fifteen (and has been for the last several years, since I conceived her) and has issues with another distant relative who builds a house on her favorite piece of land. And the character of the first book could appear in this second book, or maybe even the third, which is about a medical student who had worked with the first woman doctor. Or maybe there is only one book and they are all in it.
But now there is no book, except in my head. I've waited for that pressured rush to appear, that drive to write that even I can't resist. But it hasn't happened. I teach creative writing, but that doesn't prime the writing pump. Part of me suspects I'm busying myself with teaching so I don't actually have to do any writing. I've been thinking about Montessori schools, thinking about developing a writing program in the new medical school, getting an MFA, teaching literature in hospitals, revising course readings in literature and medicine, writing articles about teaching creative writing, preparing presentations for a conference. Perhaps there is a faint reason to expect some paltry income from some of these things. But really, aren't these just busy work? Are these really my life's work?
During my bleakest hours I think about writing my novel. I don't dream about teaching another course. I don't grieve if I forget to revise a course section or can't figure out the next reading. But I am upset when I read over a scene from my book and can't figure out where it should go next. And when I experiment with point of view and realize I could write it from any perspective but they all have problems. And when I can't decide where the book even starts, although I have an idea of where it ends.
Right this minute I feel better. At least I wrote something. No, it isn't the novel But now the novel feels more real. And writing about it at least helps be believe that it is a real thing, that maybe it will be something I might hold in my hand. That maybe it is about these characters and about me. If it is they who exist then I might disappear again, be unselfconscious, and simply flow. And that would be wonderful.
I did write a novel once. I wrote sporadically for five years. I would set aside a block of time - six weeks one year, 4 weeks another. For the first three weeks of each session I would try and try and fret and pace and finally get totally frantic. And then finally it would come in one huge blast. I would think the scenes, hear the characters talk, and what was in my head came out my fingers onto the typewriter.
I thought the thoughts of my main character, during those writing moments. Disconcerting. Complete empathy. My self faded away and my focus was complete. And then, with the completion of whatever 50 page section I was working on, it would screech to a halt and stop. Done. Nothing until my next block of time, until the next year.
And then I finished it, proofread it, sent it out, and never looked back. The agent knew it would be a "hard sell;" knew I should revisit it, reimagine it. Fred Busch said I should be true to my vision and how dare anyone tell me it should be the way I wrote it. But I think I knew in my heart that what I had written was basically a first draft. It was too intense, too painful, both to be read by others, or rewritten by me. I had imagined what I would be like as a different kind of woman doctor who happened to have the same medical problem that killed my mother. I went there, I did that, and I didn't want to do it again.
That's not to say there wasn't anything good about the book. Editors wrote nice things as they rejected it for publication. Friends also said they like it. I never sat down and read again myself.
But that character isn't dead in my mind. And I've mapped out her extended family, going back to the nineteenth century. A distant ancestor was nurse to a blind man; she knew all the herbal medicines there were. A grandfather was a country doctor who adopted all the unwanted children he delivered. A cousin lives on a Vermont farm. Her daughter is fifteen (and has been for the last several years, since I conceived her) and has issues with another distant relative who builds a house on her favorite piece of land. And the character of the first book could appear in this second book, or maybe even the third, which is about a medical student who had worked with the first woman doctor. Or maybe there is only one book and they are all in it.
But now there is no book, except in my head. I've waited for that pressured rush to appear, that drive to write that even I can't resist. But it hasn't happened. I teach creative writing, but that doesn't prime the writing pump. Part of me suspects I'm busying myself with teaching so I don't actually have to do any writing. I've been thinking about Montessori schools, thinking about developing a writing program in the new medical school, getting an MFA, teaching literature in hospitals, revising course readings in literature and medicine, writing articles about teaching creative writing, preparing presentations for a conference. Perhaps there is a faint reason to expect some paltry income from some of these things. But really, aren't these just busy work? Are these really my life's work?
During my bleakest hours I think about writing my novel. I don't dream about teaching another course. I don't grieve if I forget to revise a course section or can't figure out the next reading. But I am upset when I read over a scene from my book and can't figure out where it should go next. And when I experiment with point of view and realize I could write it from any perspective but they all have problems. And when I can't decide where the book even starts, although I have an idea of where it ends.
Right this minute I feel better. At least I wrote something. No, it isn't the novel But now the novel feels more real. And writing about it at least helps be believe that it is a real thing, that maybe it will be something I might hold in my hand. That maybe it is about these characters and about me. If it is they who exist then I might disappear again, be unselfconscious, and simply flow. And that would be wonderful.
posted by HS at 1/24/2007 02:23:00 PM
1 Comments:
"If it is they who exist then I might disappear again, be unselfconscious, and simply flow."
You are one hell of a writer, woman.
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