Redraft: Chapter 5 of 32
17075 / 139570
"An artist is he who feels that the last word of creation hasn't been spoken yet: and that he was sent into the world to utter it."
-- Hermann Bahr, literary critic (1863-1934)
So reads an aphorism attributed to Mr. Bahr in Geary's Guide to the World's Great Aphorists, one of the best collections of aphorisms I've come across. Instead of a hodgepodge of different aphorists cobbled together under rough headings (Love, Art, Death, etc.), Geary's organizes by the calling of the aporists, with a suitable index for subject-based searches. Bahr's quote is one of the best encapsulations of my perspective on creative writing: in many ways, it's as close to playing God as we creative types can get.
(You may note the link above contains an interesting referral code: talefromasoft-20. Yes, I've finally broken down and joined the Amazon Associates program. So if you do ever happen to find yourself interested in a product that I link to, please feel free to purchase it through the provided link; it costs you nothing, and I end up reaping a small percentage for it. Or, if you're feeling charitable, shop at Amazon through this link.)
(You may note the link above contains an interesting referral code: talefromasoft-20. Yes, I've finally broken down and joined the Amazon Associates program. So if you do ever happen to find yourself interested in a product that I link to, please feel free to purchase it through the provided link; it costs you nothing, and I end up reaping a small percentage for it. Or, if you're feeling charitable, shop at Amazon through this link.)
*
One of the subject blogs that I occasionally visit is Moleskinerie.com--essentially, a blog centering around that famous little black notebook, new and exciting iterations of it, and the various uses different people find for it. Moleskinerie linked to another blog called The Writer's Bag, on which I disovered an article about getting into the writing "zone."
Essentially, the "zone" is where you become so involved in the piece you're writing that time seems to stand still: one moment, you're setting down to write after lunch, and several pages later, you realize the sun's gone down, and your stomach is growling for some dinner. Despite being somewhat distraction-prone, I've eased myself into such a state a few times while writing my first draft (though not as often as I would have liked), and I last touched upon that zone while revamping the second half of Chapter 3. Since then, my other summer obligations proved too much of a distraction for me to find my way there again.
My solution? Well, I'm actually writing it right now. Putting down these words is a great segueway for me; once I have a rhythm here, it's rather easy to transpose that momentum to the fiction writing front. Another tried-and-true source of writerly momentum is reading a really good book; in fact, the zoneful progress on Chapter 3 was due in part to my reading the Nightrunner series at the time. Nothing seems to whet my appetite for my own imagined milieu like submerging myself in the milieu of another, and the better the experience, the more powerful the drive. In my estimation, Flewelling is something of a master when it comes to pacing, so much so that often times within a hundred pages of the book's end my plan actually backfired, in that I couldn't bear to tear myself away from the story to go and work on my own. Jordan's book has a more bucolic opening, which has at the same time allowed me to sip the story rather than chug it, but also kept me from reaching the zoneful state that I want to.
Which brings me back to this entry. If inspiration won't come to you, then you'd better be prepared to track it down yourself.
Essentially, the "zone" is where you become so involved in the piece you're writing that time seems to stand still: one moment, you're setting down to write after lunch, and several pages later, you realize the sun's gone down, and your stomach is growling for some dinner. Despite being somewhat distraction-prone, I've eased myself into such a state a few times while writing my first draft (though not as often as I would have liked), and I last touched upon that zone while revamping the second half of Chapter 3. Since then, my other summer obligations proved too much of a distraction for me to find my way there again.
My solution? Well, I'm actually writing it right now. Putting down these words is a great segueway for me; once I have a rhythm here, it's rather easy to transpose that momentum to the fiction writing front. Another tried-and-true source of writerly momentum is reading a really good book; in fact, the zoneful progress on Chapter 3 was due in part to my reading the Nightrunner series at the time. Nothing seems to whet my appetite for my own imagined milieu like submerging myself in the milieu of another, and the better the experience, the more powerful the drive. In my estimation, Flewelling is something of a master when it comes to pacing, so much so that often times within a hundred pages of the book's end my plan actually backfired, in that I couldn't bear to tear myself away from the story to go and work on my own. Jordan's book has a more bucolic opening, which has at the same time allowed me to sip the story rather than chug it, but also kept me from reaching the zoneful state that I want to.
Which brings me back to this entry. If inspiration won't come to you, then you'd better be prepared to track it down yourself.
*
While I'm in a reflective mood, I thought it might be a good time to mull over some of the reasons for my recent change of heart regarding the practice of law. I think of life changes as a change in teleologies: swapping one final end for another in the midst of one's journey. I've made a few admissions up to this point, but a few others should join them.
One, I've been hearing (and ignoring) a call toward fiction writing for a long time now. My law school experience has taught me that one should pursue the things that one is passionate about, rather than those things that one finds tolerable or mildly interesting. Mildly interesting is how I would describe my relationship with the law; I find its intricacies intreguing on an intellectual level, but it does not move me, spiritually or emotionally, in the way I've seen certain areas move others at the law school, professors and peers alike.
It would be one thing if nothing moved me; that would mean that I'm still searching, and some people have to search for their passions longer than others. But it is quite another when I find my attention drifting to storywriting in every unguarded moment, when I realize that I could writing for twelve hours a day (as some others gladly toil on their passions) and never consider it work (though at it's core, good writing always is). That is where your passion lies: where you would gladly do what others consider to be "work" every day for the rest of your life. Not because the task is easy--in fact, passion and ease strike me as two diametrically opposed concepts; it is in agon that our truest passions are full-born. Such conflict rarely arises in a life devoid of challenges--a life of ease.
Two, I forsook the path of a writer because I too greatly feared the archetype of the starving artist. Many who attempt to make a living as an artist fail in the attempt, if not for lack of artistic talent then for the inability to generate a proper income. In this light, I always viewed legal practice as a kind of safety net; even if my writerly pursuit refused to bear fruit, at least I'd still be able to pay the bills. In this, I neglected the biblical adage that one cannot serve two masters; one will inevitably spurn one, and adore the other. Beyond that, each master deserves his servant's undivided attention; in seeking to compartmentalize writing and practice alongside one another, I inevitably would have neglected both. It wouldn't have been fair to my clients if I labored on my writing in place of work product. Nor would it have been honorable to join a firm who welcomed me as a potential new partner, only to spurn their interest and investment the moment that writing alone proved itself viable. As I waited for the last of the OCI employers to make their decisions last fall, I wondered if I would have to place myself in the awkward position of turning down a summer offer not because I had already accepted another, but because my heart was no longer in it. (No refusal is quite the slap to the face as "No, thank you, but I no longer have the heart to become what you already are.") But perhaps the firms saw something in me that I myself didn't until many weeks later, as none of them chose to place me in that awkward position. (Now that I think about it, I did pray, prior to the OCIs, that I would receive no offers but the one that was right for me. Of course, at the time when I prayed it, I assumed that my rightful place lay among the firms I met with.)
Although it pains me to admit it, a third reason for my change in outlook is what I discerned laid among my motivations for pursuing a legal career in the first place. I am by nature a very insecure person (though I suppose such is true of everyone, to one extent or another), and so part of my reasons for seeking to become a lawyer lay in the prestige and accolades that come with establishing oneself as a pillar of the legal community. Such impetus does not a meaningful career make, and it horrified me to realize that, once I stripped this prize away, the remaining rewards of private legal practice seemed, at least to the bias of my eye, paltry indeed.
I note with regret that I have rarely taken much wisdom first hand from sermons in my time, despite a life-long faith in Christianity. Much of my personal theology was forged in silent communion with my Creator, so perhaps it should be no surprise that many of the lessons that strike other parishioners as epiphanies are often to me things heard at least once before. Nevertheless, in my recent decision the testimony of one pastor stood as a cautionary tale for me, one that barred a path that I, if not forewarned, might have taken, never realizing that it was a detour until many years down the road. He was once a lawyer himself, and a judge after that, before he was called to serve as a pastor. Once of the greatest vices he had to overcome was his own hubris, his pride in the vestments and authority of his position. They say that Wisdom teaches gently, though her lessons can only be gleaned by those who are willing to listen. Experience teaches those who cannot, and though she is a harsher instructor, she is equally effective. By that pastor's testimony, I like to think that my ears were perked up just enough to hear Wisdom's gentle whisperings, before Experience could step in to take her toll.
Pride and the other Seven Sins--and in truth, all of human emotion, both good and ill--are strangely conflicted things. The most timid and doubtful among us are, paradoxically, often times just as prideful as those who boast of their virtues like crows cawing in the chill of the night. To a great extent, it is the secret pride harbored within our hearts--the belief that we are better than others, and the associated desire to live up to those expectations--that impels us to keep silent sometimes when we alone know the answer, for fear that, once uttered, our convictions will be proven wrong. In this way does pride often abide strongest in those who seem the most abject; it is pride that shames them in the most casual of missteps, a belief that they should be far better that makes them obsess over the mistake. In the same way, pride itself is born of insecurity: intrinsic to the belief that one is better than another is the doubt, the fear that one in fact is not. Pride, then, is not an end in of itself, but a byproduct of a desperate, voracious need for validation.
It is the same for the other Seven: Sloth is born of a need for convictions; without them, one collapses in on oneself. Lust, in turn, is born of desperation for love. Greed, for sufficiency. Gluttony, for satiation. Envy, for fulfillment. Wrath, for understanding.
Even my newly chosen path is not devoid of dangers. Pride can enter the heart of any writer who muses that his prose could bring Shakespeare to his knees; envy festers at the heart of every author who covets the success, financial or otherwise, of the fortunate and gifted few like Stephen King and J.K. Rowling. But passion--love for the craft itself, and the creations that spring forth from it--can conquer even the mightiest of the Seven, if one pursues it for a purpose greater than one's own.
For me, that purpose is inextricably bound with the great intention I perceive in every stitch of the manifold tapestry of existence, the gentle touch of the Creator imbued in every living moment. For others, it need not be couched in the same religious or metaphysical terms. But I suspect the underlying conviction is largely the same. As for me, as I cast my mind's eye over the sum total of creation, I know that I am but the tiniest cog in a monumental machine whose ultimate end I may never fully see. Nevertheless, there is a place appointed for me within the construct; there is a role that I must fulfill.
And I, a cog gifted with the power to decide whether to turn or not, choose to do so willingly.
One, I've been hearing (and ignoring) a call toward fiction writing for a long time now. My law school experience has taught me that one should pursue the things that one is passionate about, rather than those things that one finds tolerable or mildly interesting. Mildly interesting is how I would describe my relationship with the law; I find its intricacies intreguing on an intellectual level, but it does not move me, spiritually or emotionally, in the way I've seen certain areas move others at the law school, professors and peers alike.
It would be one thing if nothing moved me; that would mean that I'm still searching, and some people have to search for their passions longer than others. But it is quite another when I find my attention drifting to storywriting in every unguarded moment, when I realize that I could writing for twelve hours a day (as some others gladly toil on their passions) and never consider it work (though at it's core, good writing always is). That is where your passion lies: where you would gladly do what others consider to be "work" every day for the rest of your life. Not because the task is easy--in fact, passion and ease strike me as two diametrically opposed concepts; it is in agon that our truest passions are full-born. Such conflict rarely arises in a life devoid of challenges--a life of ease.
Two, I forsook the path of a writer because I too greatly feared the archetype of the starving artist. Many who attempt to make a living as an artist fail in the attempt, if not for lack of artistic talent then for the inability to generate a proper income. In this light, I always viewed legal practice as a kind of safety net; even if my writerly pursuit refused to bear fruit, at least I'd still be able to pay the bills. In this, I neglected the biblical adage that one cannot serve two masters; one will inevitably spurn one, and adore the other. Beyond that, each master deserves his servant's undivided attention; in seeking to compartmentalize writing and practice alongside one another, I inevitably would have neglected both. It wouldn't have been fair to my clients if I labored on my writing in place of work product. Nor would it have been honorable to join a firm who welcomed me as a potential new partner, only to spurn their interest and investment the moment that writing alone proved itself viable. As I waited for the last of the OCI employers to make their decisions last fall, I wondered if I would have to place myself in the awkward position of turning down a summer offer not because I had already accepted another, but because my heart was no longer in it. (No refusal is quite the slap to the face as "No, thank you, but I no longer have the heart to become what you already are.") But perhaps the firms saw something in me that I myself didn't until many weeks later, as none of them chose to place me in that awkward position. (Now that I think about it, I did pray, prior to the OCIs, that I would receive no offers but the one that was right for me. Of course, at the time when I prayed it, I assumed that my rightful place lay among the firms I met with.)
Although it pains me to admit it, a third reason for my change in outlook is what I discerned laid among my motivations for pursuing a legal career in the first place. I am by nature a very insecure person (though I suppose such is true of everyone, to one extent or another), and so part of my reasons for seeking to become a lawyer lay in the prestige and accolades that come with establishing oneself as a pillar of the legal community. Such impetus does not a meaningful career make, and it horrified me to realize that, once I stripped this prize away, the remaining rewards of private legal practice seemed, at least to the bias of my eye, paltry indeed.
I note with regret that I have rarely taken much wisdom first hand from sermons in my time, despite a life-long faith in Christianity. Much of my personal theology was forged in silent communion with my Creator, so perhaps it should be no surprise that many of the lessons that strike other parishioners as epiphanies are often to me things heard at least once before. Nevertheless, in my recent decision the testimony of one pastor stood as a cautionary tale for me, one that barred a path that I, if not forewarned, might have taken, never realizing that it was a detour until many years down the road. He was once a lawyer himself, and a judge after that, before he was called to serve as a pastor. Once of the greatest vices he had to overcome was his own hubris, his pride in the vestments and authority of his position. They say that Wisdom teaches gently, though her lessons can only be gleaned by those who are willing to listen. Experience teaches those who cannot, and though she is a harsher instructor, she is equally effective. By that pastor's testimony, I like to think that my ears were perked up just enough to hear Wisdom's gentle whisperings, before Experience could step in to take her toll.
Pride and the other Seven Sins--and in truth, all of human emotion, both good and ill--are strangely conflicted things. The most timid and doubtful among us are, paradoxically, often times just as prideful as those who boast of their virtues like crows cawing in the chill of the night. To a great extent, it is the secret pride harbored within our hearts--the belief that we are better than others, and the associated desire to live up to those expectations--that impels us to keep silent sometimes when we alone know the answer, for fear that, once uttered, our convictions will be proven wrong. In this way does pride often abide strongest in those who seem the most abject; it is pride that shames them in the most casual of missteps, a belief that they should be far better that makes them obsess over the mistake. In the same way, pride itself is born of insecurity: intrinsic to the belief that one is better than another is the doubt, the fear that one in fact is not. Pride, then, is not an end in of itself, but a byproduct of a desperate, voracious need for validation.
It is the same for the other Seven: Sloth is born of a need for convictions; without them, one collapses in on oneself. Lust, in turn, is born of desperation for love. Greed, for sufficiency. Gluttony, for satiation. Envy, for fulfillment. Wrath, for understanding.
Even my newly chosen path is not devoid of dangers. Pride can enter the heart of any writer who muses that his prose could bring Shakespeare to his knees; envy festers at the heart of every author who covets the success, financial or otherwise, of the fortunate and gifted few like Stephen King and J.K. Rowling. But passion--love for the craft itself, and the creations that spring forth from it--can conquer even the mightiest of the Seven, if one pursues it for a purpose greater than one's own.
For me, that purpose is inextricably bound with the great intention I perceive in every stitch of the manifold tapestry of existence, the gentle touch of the Creator imbued in every living moment. For others, it need not be couched in the same religious or metaphysical terms. But I suspect the underlying conviction is largely the same. As for me, as I cast my mind's eye over the sum total of creation, I know that I am but the tiniest cog in a monumental machine whose ultimate end I may never fully see. Nevertheless, there is a place appointed for me within the construct; there is a role that I must fulfill.
And I, a cog gifted with the power to decide whether to turn or not, choose to do so willingly.
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