Dear reader,
I got to meet with some writers this week, and it got me thinking about this worthy work, this work that seems almost holy. When I’m writing, I feel myself fitting into some sense of rightness, something like my hand fitting into my husband’s. I feel myself settling into some sense of completion, but it's an ongoing, ever-changing completion somehow. I have grown so much, and I have so far to go.
I’ve been thinking lately about the enigmatic concept of “voice”-- how in the world do you find it? That translucent, glittering stuff that slips through the hands of everyone else, indeed even your own, that makes your writing yours? Our words have the fingerprints of all the authors we’ve ever read and loved, a combination entirely unique to each of us, paired with the influences of our own personal loves and longings. All of this is a great mystery– it can only be described, never defined with precision. The moment we try to start defining our own voice, our every word will be contrived. And because of this, I know it is a gift from God, precious and astonishing. We may not be able to pin our voice down, to hold it, but how do we hone it? From what I’ve read and learned for myself, that takes practice, stubborn and decisive. And reading, often and passionately. We must take care to fill our minds with thoughts we find worthy of thinking, truths we want to steep in, ideas we wish would seep into our writing. This may mean sifting through some works that miss the mark, but if those dead ends take us to one light-dappled place, nothing will be in vain. Likewise, if we end up scrapping a whole group of pages for one bit of truth discovered about a character– all of the laboring, all of the discoveries are a gift that we never would have received had we not sat down to our work.
“Young Woman Writing a Letter” by Federico Zandomeneghi
As enigmatic as voice is inspiration. I remember in one of my freshman literature classes, our professor had us stand in front of the class and read one of our favorite poems that had enlightened us in some way. I chose Sidney Lanier’s “Individuality,” a poem that is certainly hard to digest in a first encounter, but which had deeply influenced my idea of writing. He writes,
“My Lord is large, my Lord is strong:
Giving, He gave: my me is mine.
How poor, how strange, how wrong,
To dream He wrote the little song
I made to Him with love's unforced design!”
I used to cling to this idea that my writing is my own so wholeheartedly that it blotted out other nuances and truths. I told myself that if my writing is all my own, then it is more of a gift and an offering to God– so surely my words must be mine…but I cannot create out of nothing like he can, and everything I have is his. Our talents are indeed our first fruits, meant to be brought to his throne, but their preciousness is not diminished by the fact that he blessed us with them. Likewise, the farmer’s first fruits of harvest are not lesser because God created the fruit. Yet who are we to judge the state of our offering? Why not just give back to him lavishly, with everything we can? (I see Lanier’s poem with much more depth now– I think his idea can exist alongside a hearty affirmation that God has a hand in inspiring us.) Interestingly enough, it was only once I started seeing my writing as not my own that inspiration and dedication began to flow. Once I took my greedy hands off of my offering to God, it found its home in him. Let me tell you the story of that.
About a year ago at this time, I was talking with my group leader at Breadloaf, Paul Yoon, telling him how I had been advised by another author to have a question at the heart of my story that I was writing towards. I asked him, “Are we meant to have an answer to that question all along?” And he drew back, saying, no– the moment we think we have an answer, all of the magic of story is ruined. And goosebumps raised on my arms as I knew he had spoken truth. “If we know the answer, then why are we writing the story?” he asked me. And so I have learned that we write not to answer the deep, soul-striking questions of life, but to feel a little more deeply the mystery of them. Do the great books we’ve read ever answer those questions? I cannot think of one clear answer, but I will never forget the way they affected me.
About this same time, I was reading the life changing book by Madeleine L’Engle, “Walking on Water.” She writes how we must be servants of our creative work, we must listen to it and follow where it leads. We write to take our hands off of the world, to pause our human drive for manipulation and meddling, and to give ourselves up to a quiet, attentive listening, a following and a trust. Our characters are their own people, they will do what they will do. They will surprise us, even us authors, and bring us deep grief and deep joy. And that is the fun of it!
For the first time this year, I have felt my story take me by the hand. My characters, who are not mine, have done things to which I thought, “no– that will not do,” and I have had to silence myself and follow anyway. I remember how a year ago, I was mapping out my story and planning where scenes would go, what characters would do– all of that seems like meddling to me now, I look back on myself and feel almost selfish. Who was I to think I knew where this was going? I can almost hear my characters laughing at me– a laugh at my naivete, but a laugh of loving fondness no less.
And in the same breath, I have to wonder– who am I to think I know where the story of my life is going? Who am I to lay down plans and timelines for myself? Oh Lord, open my hands, open my hands.
This was dense in the best way. You touched on so many topics yet wove them like a tight tapestry. I enjoyed the question of “the question”.