Simply Staring at the Water

 This week's quotation, by Bengali poet and writer, Rabindranath Tagore, says, "You cannot cross an ocean by simply staring at the water."

And it made me realise that is what I have spent most of the time since Christmas doing. At least so far as my writing is concerned. Towards the end of 2020, I felt I had got the first volume more or less done, and started on volume 2. By the end of December, I had written the first eleven chapters, nearly 40,000 words, and with each additional chapter, I felt more and more unhappy. The well of inspiration was running dry.

I started to fiddle around with those eleven chapters, re-writing scenes, changing this, altering that. But none of it worked. I realised I hadn't got a clue where I wanted the story to go, and that I really didn't like one of the new characters I'd introduced and couldn't think how she was going to further the story. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? It was clear that just trying to bull through wasn't working. Each scene became increasingly difficult to write, and after a couple of weeks, I was ready to give up.

So I started to listen to American writer Brandon Sanderson's latest series of lectures on writing science fiction and fantasy, from which I've learned heaps. And this time (he posts them on YouTube each year) as I listened to the two lectures on character, I finally understood how I could stop staring at the water and get writing again. He explained that each scene has to be written in the light of the character's motivations. So in the middle of this week, I spent my entire rest day writing character arcs for my ten main characters. As I wrote, new ideas began to come, and now I have a much better idea of where I'm going. So I'm working my way back through volume 1 to make sure each scene moves the point of view character along, and am going to completely rewrite those eleven chapters. All sorts of exciting possibilities are spinning round my brain, and I have my writing mojo back.

It is said that a journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step. And sometimes, that first step is the most difficult one to make. It helps if we have a map, or at least some idea of our destination. And the motivation to get up and walk out of the door. It can be so tempting to stay in, huddle under our blankets and choose not to change. But I believe that it is always, always worth it. If we are to live our lives to the full, we have to stop staring at the water, and dip our toes into that ocean.

The Pointlessness of Regret

 Last Sunday, I came into contact with someone who has now tested positive for the coronavirus. Without thinking, I did a very stupid thing, because I was so pleased to see them - I gave them a brief, sideways, facing away hug. So now I am self-isolating in my own house, trying to keep away from my son and my husband, until next Wednesday. I have ordered a home-testing kit, which came too late yesterday to be done, so I'll be sending it off today.

I have been kicking myself for my idiotic impulsive gesture, but what is the point? I did what I did, and now I may have to pay for it. I don't so much mind for myself, but I am praying with every fibre of my heart that if I do get this horrible virus, I won't pass it on to my two loved ones. Particularly not to my husband, who is diabetic.

Sometimes, we all do things which we later regret. "If only" are probably the two saddest words in the English language. "If only I had..." "If only I hadn't..." But "if only" always comes too late. I guess the only thing we can do is to try to live and act in such a way that we don't end up in the "if only" situation.

Except that, we always, always will. Sometimes it is unavoidable (unlike my mistake). Sometimes, someone we love moves away, leaves us, and we are left with a whole crop of "if onlys" to live with. We will regret all the wasted opportunities to be kinder, all the times we were unkind.

I guess that what I'm saying is, this has taught me a lesson. To be as kind as I can, in my interactions with other people, with other living beings, so that my crop of regrets will be as small as possible.

As my friend Celia writes each day, "stay safe and well."

Embracing the Ordinary

It is in the nature of many of us to strive for perfection, to work fervently towards a particular goal. And it is good that we aim high. But as George Bernard Shaw wrote, "Man can reach the highest peaks, but he cannot stay there long."

It is the nature of humankind to strive, to do our best, to keep moving forward, "onwards and upwards forever" as the old Unitarian maxim had it. Yet because the direction of life is always forward to the future, each time we achieve something, whether it is something small, or something huge, we find that life goes on, regardless. We achieve the goal - whether it is the publication of the book, the qualification, the new job, the new relationship - and then we have to learn to fold it in to our ordinary, everyday lives. Because nobody can live at the peak of emotions for any length of time - first of all, it is exhausting, and second of all, it will set us up for disappointment when we (inevitably) come down.

So what should we do? I believe that we should honour our achievements, our arrival at the peak, but hold them lightly at the same time. There's a lovely passage in C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters, which illustrates this idea beautifully: Screwtape explains that what God wants of us is for us to live in the Present, where time meets eternity. He comments, "To be sure, the Enemy wants men to think of the Future too - just so much as is necessary for now planning the acts of justice or charity which will probably be their duty tomorrow. The duty of planning the morrow's work is today's duty; though its material is borrowed from the future, the duty, like all duties is in the Present... He does not want men to give the Future thier hearts, to place their treasure in it... His ideal is a man who, having worked all day for the good of posterity (if that is his vocation), washes his mind of the whole subject, commits the issue to Heaven, and returns at once to the patience or gratitude demanded by the moment that is passing over him."

He argues that it is the devil's job to make people "hag-ridden by the Future - haunted by visions of an imminent heaven or hell upon earth - ready to break the Enemy's commands in the present if by so doing we make him think he can attain the one or avert the other - dependent for his faith on the success or failure of schemes whose end he will not live to see."

So the trick (I think) is to continue to strive for the highest and best we know, but simultaneously to recognise that moments of high achievement are always, always transitory, and to accept that most of our lives will be lived at a more ordinary level. And that the ordinary (by which I mean our daily lives) is okay. More than okay - it is where we can find contentment.

 

The Perfection of Ideas

 I was tempted to call this blogpost, "I wish." Because I'm not sure I altogether agree with the 18th century French moralist and essayist, Joseph Joubert, when he wrote, "When the idea has reached the highest level of perfection, the word breaks open like a blossom."

It would be wonderful to think so - that we will magically be able to translate the ideas of our minds and hearts into faultless prose or poetry, which will interpret them fluently to our readers or hearers. But it ain't necessarily so. Or at least, it isn't for me.

Sometimes, when I'm writing - whether it's an address, a blogpost, a journal article, or the latest scene of the work in progress, I am inspired (I call this 'a visit from the Inspiration Fairy') and the words do flow, and I seldom need to do much re-writing. But the more usual state of affairs (for me, and for most writers, I would guess) is that we sit in front of our computers or notebooks, staring at the blank page and thinking unprintable thoughts as we struggle to translate our ideas into words, sentences and paragraphs which will mean something to other people.

I always keep a notebook by my bed, in case the Inspiration Fairy comes to call. She has been good to me over the years, offering not only ideas, but also (sometimes) complete paragraphs or scenes. Often in the middle of the night - hence the notebook.

But I believe that most writing - whether it is an address, a short story, a magazine article or any work of fiction or non-fiction - comes into being through hard graft. It is the duty of the writer to turn up at their desk, roll up their sleeves and write.  The important thing is just to show up. It doesn't matter if what we write at first doesn't work, if we would blush to show it to anyone. The fact is, by having the faith to turn up, we are giving our writing muse a chance to show up themselves. We may only keep a single sentence out of a whole page on some days, but hey! That's still progress. And that single sentence may open the door to new ideas. Which will then need polishing into what Joubert calls "the highest level of perfection." Or at least, the highest level we are capable of producing, just then.

The final version may be (probably will be, most of the time) much different to what we first wrote - this blogpost, for example, has been revised quite a bit - but because I sat at my desk and showed up, the work has been done. And that is such a precious gift.