The face that only a mother could love.
Something happened tonight that made me realize I am going about things in the wrong way.
The painful, empty way.
I mentioned yesterday that I have a new novel “in the works.” In actuality, “in the works" means that the concept has come to me and I know it isn’t going anywhere. I haven’t officially started writing the thing, partly due to my schedule and mostly due to the fear surrounding this beginning push.
On the night before the first day of school, my dad used to say that all you need to do is to get past the inertia of summer vacation; it’s that initial push into the swing of things that’s always the hardest.
And at the start of something big and scary and exciting, like writing a new novel, there is this tension that always surfaces between wanting to tell everyone what you have inside your head and keeping it under lockdown, like a precious jewel.
Writing long form fiction is so similar, in my opinion, to painting. You can show someone the underpainting, if you must, but that’s only just the foundation. Layers upon layers of paint and scraping and the restructuring of angles and even of perspective may occur between that underpainting and the final work. The first few strokes may only hint at what’s to come, and only the most perceptive viewers can appreciate such work in its infancy.
Fiction writing is, in every way, the very same. I start with a structured layout that gets changed and tweaked over and over again. Where I start is often unrecognizable from where I end. Yet the temptation to share those early inclinations of story have been STRONG for me this go-around. Maybe it’s because I haven’t written fiction in over 3 years, or maybe it’s just the draw of my good ol’ frenemy, instant gratification.
Either way, the temptation to share the scraps of storyline that I’ve begun to piece together overpowered me tonight, and I caved. But my story, at this stage, is like the ugly baby that only a mother can love. My excited sharing of this infant of a story fell flat on my listener, despite my heart swelling with matronly pride. I had a miniature moment of panic, accompanied by internal dialogue:
“Is it too bland? Too basic? Cliche? Surely there’s a hook in there, but why didn’t they react? Am I just a hack, spitting out the same old love story that a billion writers have already written? I should just trash it all, right?? Oh, God…”
But here’s what I had momentarily forgotten. What I shared is only the underpainting. All of the nuance, the moments of light and of shadow, the characterization and the trick of the eye will come later. Much later. Not even I can know what beauty will unfold over time because to write is to follow the guidance of “the muse”. It is an act of faith and of surrender to the very forces of Creation.
But to surrender takes courage and courage takes discipline. Keeping the baby under wraps until it has grown out of its ugly duckling phase is the best course of action in the world of new writing. Give up the cheap thrill of someone thinking you’ve got a good idea and just implement the damn thing. Don’t tell anyone until you honestly don’t care what anyone else thinks because you absolutely have to do it anyway. And if you must share, share for feedback, and only with someone to whom you would trust your life.
You can’t know the value of your creations until they exist in the world. Steven Pressfield wrote beautifully about this very topic yesterday, and I second the message. All you have to do is show up. Show up and sit there. Show up and sit there, and wait. Wait with expectancy.
Wait with faith.
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