Moving at Nature’s Pace

There’s an essay I’ve been working on for over eight years. In its current iteration, I suppose it’s more like six or seven. It’s changed titles, length, is (was?) a keystone piece in my memoir. Everything was born from this essay, spiraled out like a spider’s web. For a while there, I left it alone. I’d tinker with it, move sections around, applied to MFAs and then residencies with it. Eventually, it lost its luster, and since it was nagging at me, I decided to revisit it. Again. I had promised myself to focus on other parts of my memoir, to leave it alone for now. But I just couldn’t leave it alone.

I worked on it every morning for the first two weeks of May. I was excited about it again, felt that I found what wasn’t working for me anymore. I made some bold decisions, chopped off a part that had consistently been the ending since its inception. I decided this was it, it doesn’t need to be there, I can place it someplace else in the manuscript. 

I read it again, in its entirety, and felt deflated. It didn’t hit the right notes, it moved too quickly (I think), it felt somewhat flat and I wondered if I could even judge it anymore.

A while back, I collected some quotes on writing and nature. Here are two I’ve been returning to a lot lately:

(I first encountered the Tagore quote in Aimee Nezhukumatathil's fantastic book World of Wonders.) 

I need constant reminders the world wasn’t actually created in seven days. That nature doesn't bloom overnight; flowers and plants die, lay dormant and come back again, trees take years to root, and rivers carve canyons throughout thousands and millions of years. Our stories need time. (Hi God, I’m not saying thousands of years please. Though it feels like that some days.)

The truth is, even this blog post was done weeks ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to post it. I was stuck in overwhelm by the world and family obligations. Then last Sunday, listening to my horoscope on the Chani app, I heard her say something along the lines of: you can’t plant the seed and eat the fruit the same day. This felt like a call for me to put my writing thoughts into the world. I’m obviously not the only one feeling the pressure.

Glad to see I’m in good company. Thanks to The Paris Review for the reminder.

In a world obsessed with speed (and evidence showing our attention spans decreasing), quick wins, fast drafts, quick turnaround to publication, and viral success, writing has required a monumental amount of patience from me. My drafts might come quickly, but if revision is writing, well that shit is as slow as molasses.

When you publish a story, a book, a poem, it goes out into the world and has its own life. I wish I came up with that concept myself, but I heard Amie McNee say that. I know it’s hard to resist comparing yourself to others if you’re a slow writer. Or maybe you’re a fast writer! But can’t seem to get the damn essay into the right shape and it just keeps growing legs and arms. But as someone who is writing about family, I also want to make sure I know what I’m putting out there. Because once I release it, it has to be able to speak for itself. Knowing we all change opinions, I do the best that I can to consider that one day, I might disagree with myself, with my own words. I try to be okay with that.

Each step of writing requires thought though: maybe an idea is planted, maybe each word in a sentence is water, each act of revision sunlight. We make slow and steady movements where sometimes the most powerful progress is invisible. Obvious progress can look like publication (perhaps in one of your favorite journals: lookin at you River Teeth), but a shift in clarity is powerful, a need to return to the page even when it’s emotionally difficult can be a win, a gem that pops back up gleaming after a nice long shower or a delicious nap another step.  

When I finished the initial manuscript draft, I printed it out. When I swore I’d start revisions, I carried it around the house (like Log Lady from Twin Peaks…thank my husband and son for that comparison), slept with it next to me as if I would be able to magically revise it in my sleep. When the revisions didn’t happen, I didn’t so much feel like I was failing but as if I were falling behind. And of course, I constantly felt like I should just give it up and stop lying to myself. But, looking at it every day, literally just looking at it, did do something. The structure was there. The ideas were written. I knew what they were, and something was marinating. The reality is the patience is also about you becoming the kind of person who can write the story the way it needs to be written. Not just about how you want to write it, but to surrender control a little, allowing it to bloom the way it’s meant to. Allowing yourself to bloom too.

My encouragement of others to find their flow, to rest, to move with intention obviously has a lot to do with what has helped me. With what continues to help me keep going. Staying consistent and gracious with myself is so hard, but I hope everyone can honor their pace, protect their energy, and write from a place of integrity. Growth is happening even when you can’t see it yet. I promise. And yes, obviously I’m writing this to myself as much as I’m writing it to you.           

I invite you to observe something in nature. A plant, a bird, a rock. What does its pace teach you about your own? Write about that. Let me know what you discover.