Jumping out of the plane

Last month I was invited to speak to a community reads program in Brenham, Texas.

Before I spoke, several actors performed a reading from a chapter of The Music of Bees, my first novel. It was so strange to hear my words in the mouths of others. Listening to them I thought, “I wrote that?” Then, “What cheek!” Then, “Oh my god that’s so awkward. I would totally rewrite that.” Yes, revision would never end if it weren’t for deadlines, at least for me.

I love writing books. I love seeing finished books on bookstore shelves. But there’s some separation that happens between the two points of measurement. The finished product is not the thing I wrote. Or perhaps a better explanation, it is not the writing of it. And the writing of it is the thing I love most. 

People often ask writers, “What is your process?”

Any attempt to answer this question fails because it’s asking about mechanics. The mechanics are easy: me sitting alone in a room staring at a screen. What the process feels like is what has me ensnared. Writing is a forgetting, a falling away from the present moment, an entering into a maze, and following a thread. I don’t know where it’s going, but that’s the part I love, getting lost in the unknown and the unknowable nature of it but feeling hopeful I’ll find my way out.

But then there’s this other thing—the place at the end of writing, which is the space I inhabit now. I finished the first draft of my new novel last year. I’ve spent the last twelve months doing other things: revising that draft, promoting my other books, speaking to book clubs, and teaching writing workshops. I have not, consequently, been lost in anything. I have no puzzle to work on in a sort of magical forgetting.

This space is uncomfortable. I do not like it here even though I believe it is essential.

When I’m not writing, when I’m waiting to write, I feel tense and anxious.

I feel like I’m high in the air in a small cargo plane. It’s loud up here and cold. I’m in some sort of bulky getup with a helmet and goggles that make it hard to see and hear. There’s someone in there with me, a stranger. They are about to open the door, and I’m supposed to jump. I’m trying to tell them that I don’t think this is a good idea because I’ve made my own parachute for this endeavor and that doesn’t seem sensible. Unfortunately, they can’t hear me over the roar of the engines or won’t listen. I pace back and forth knowing waiting for the inevitable. The person opens the door and the noise increases. They motion me out with a frantic arm. “Go! Go! GO!”  they insist, shouting to be heard.

My heart is in my throat and I leap out into space!

And then…

 I’m sitting at a bus stop. Because that’s what it’s like, really—waiting to write.

Once I sit down at my desk, there is no falling through the air with the ground coming up fast. There is no terror about whether my parachute will deploy or hold. Getting started writing again after a long time away can be boring and frustrating and anxiety producing, but anxiety is not the same as terror, right? (Right??) I’ve always had a hard time waiting for the bus in this country where they never run on time. So I sit there, the wind blowing cold or maybe it’s hot and there is garbage cartwheeling down the sidewalk. The bus is really late and I can’t take it, so I get up and start to walk. It seems like it will be faster and feels better to move. And then my feet start to hurt and just as I’ve come to regret my decision to walk, the bus blows past. It’s full of people who are reading or napping or sipping free drinks and they all look so content.

I watch the bus receding and wonder how far it is to the next bus stop. But then I look off to the side of the road and see a path. I start to walk and find it leads to a lake. The water looks really cold. But it beckonsI take my shoes off, walk down the hot planks of the dock and sit. I brace myself and slip into the water. It’s cold at first, but then envelopes me like a second skin. I kick, I float, and the water holds me. I feel unweighted and free from the aches and pains I was carrying. I flip over and open my eyes. Looking down into the depths I can see so much. And I want to stay here forever suspended and weightless looking for sunken treasure.

It's like this every time I jump out of the plane. As Jane Austen put in, much more succinctly thank I, “I am not at all in a humor for writing. I must write on till I am.”

Where are you in your writing today? Waiting to jump or happily swimming? Wherever you happen to be, I wish you luck and calm, deep waters.