Writing, Reality, and the Whole *&%$ Process

I finished tinkering with my essay yesterday--this is the second stage of a writing process I've fallen into. First, I sort of vomit words for a hours (this used to take one big block of time for a first draft but now takes several days or weeks, depending on children), and then I leave it for a while to cure. . .I return to find it stinks far worse than I thought it did initially, and then I begin cleaning. I clean, clean, clean again. I chop it up and add things and throw pieces in the garbage, and then I step back. This takes me through multiple drafts. At this point, I either think it's pretty good and am proud of myself, or (what is more likely), I'm completely bewildered, lost in a familiar neighborhood. Then I pass it on to readers.

There are two sorts of readers: readers who give me fairly minimal but important feedback, questions or points of confusion or overall impressions. My mother, for instance, either announces that she likes something or doesn't, though she gives me more specific details if I ask for them (she was very helpful in one of my last short stories). The second sort of reader is Martin. He is a sort and he is an individual. He reads something as objectively as he can and then he gives me an honest critique, which usually involves heavy scissoring, tiny, painful tweezering, and maybe an explosion or two. And while this process in particular can be a little wearying, it is so vital to the life of whatever I've written. I produce the body, Martin's the surgeon, I'm the stitcher-upper. After years of repeating this process, Martin will often point to something and I'll sigh and say, "Yes, I know you were going to pick that out. I knew it shouldn't stay but I kind of liked it and I thought, just maybe. . ." and then we'll blow it to smithereens and I feel better afterward. Writing is a good exercise in radical letting-go: releasing yourself, your expectations, your most treasured sentences and descriptions, the parts that you wished were beautiful but, in the sunlight, are flat and one-dimensional.

And then I do several more rewrites and by the end of the entire process I'm so sick of the piece I want to stitch it up, package it in ice, and send it on its way. The reality is, of course, that it mostly gets returned-to-sender and I have to open it up for more surgery again.

The children are restless at the moment and they're driving me a bit crazy. Altered voices, sudden lurches, repeated movements, pounding footfalls, spontaneous crying and begs for attention--all these charming things abound. Beatrix peed in her crib, cried, and wouldn't go back to sleep, and there's been no settling and silence of any one body in the house. Looks like the next step of the writing process will have to wait. I'll gladly trade it in for an hour of peace and quiet.