A moment to remember . . .
Actually it was more than a moment. It was almost an hour.
It was amazing. Wholly unexpected. And yet, if I had to explain to anyone why I write -- and sometimes I do find myself explaining -- I would say that I write for the joy of those rare and beautiful moments of unexpected connection. They make it all worthwhile.
Remember a couple of days ago when I was discussing (okay, whining about) the 145 takes I'd already put in on the airplane to Fiji scene? And remember how the next day I said the 146th take had done it. We were off the plane. Home free.
Well, of course, I spoke too soon. I spent yesterday back on the plane again. Mopping up. Straightening. Smoothing. Adding stuff so that Spence and Sadie weren't just talking heads or angsting heads, dithering in endless internal monologues. I was happy enough with the stuff I had written, but I felt it needed a bit of polish.
And then, in the process of polishing, Spence said something to Sadie he hadn't said before. It was almost a question. But not quite. He was looking for an answer, but not wanting to admit it. And he certainly wasn't expecting the answer he got.
Nor was I. What Sadie said astonished Spence and drowned me in memories I hadn't touched in probably at least 30 years. I wasn't expecting the flood of recollections, of possibilities, of connections that her answer evoked. I wasn't expecting to find answers there. And as they came, I was as bowled over as Spence was.
He has even more questions now. But I have answers he'll get in time.
Writing this book has been, for the most part, like spending months in a narrow dark tunnel with a couple of uncommunicative chimpanzees. We bump into each other a lot, and they try to tell me what matters to them. Only I don't speak their language and we've all been getting a bit frustrated.
And then, all of a sudden: breakthrough. One of them says something in a language I understand. Or maybe now they've been talking to me long enough I understand their language at last. Then the other one starts composing riffs and singing harmony and it all makes sense. And suddenly we're no longer in a tunnel and there's no darkness anywhere. There are just these wonderful emotions and memories and people named Spence and Sadie are talking to each other. And to me. And I can hardly write fast enough.
I got it all down. It was after midnight and I didn't want to quit. But they'd said all they had to say for the night. They were ready to turn in, even if I was willing to go on. So I quit, too. But I have what I need now. Last night, completely without warning, I had a glimpse of their past -- and, even better, a view of the future they can have together. And now I have the knowledge to see that it happens.
Of course they'll have to do a bit of suffering first. We're barely halfway there. But I know them a lot better now. There might be shadowy places and tunnels again. But the chimp suits are gone. We're speaking the same language now.
It was wonderful. Memorable. A real high. It's what I love most about writing. It's great to have a book accepted, to see it in print, to be told how much it touched someone else's life (which is really really wonderful indeed, but not why I write). But those moments when there is a pure full connection between the characters and the author and the page, those are the moments I show up for each morning. They're rare and beautiful and special enough to keep me coming back.
You can't plan it. You can't demand it. You can only show up day after day after day. And if you do -- and if you're lucky -- someday a character will say something that is the key to the story and makes it all worthwhile.
It happened to me and Spence and Sadie last night.
Who knew?
It was amazing. Wholly unexpected. And yet, if I had to explain to anyone why I write -- and sometimes I do find myself explaining -- I would say that I write for the joy of those rare and beautiful moments of unexpected connection. They make it all worthwhile.
Remember a couple of days ago when I was discussing (okay, whining about) the 145 takes I'd already put in on the airplane to Fiji scene? And remember how the next day I said the 146th take had done it. We were off the plane. Home free.
Well, of course, I spoke too soon. I spent yesterday back on the plane again. Mopping up. Straightening. Smoothing. Adding stuff so that Spence and Sadie weren't just talking heads or angsting heads, dithering in endless internal monologues. I was happy enough with the stuff I had written, but I felt it needed a bit of polish.
And then, in the process of polishing, Spence said something to Sadie he hadn't said before. It was almost a question. But not quite. He was looking for an answer, but not wanting to admit it. And he certainly wasn't expecting the answer he got.
Nor was I. What Sadie said astonished Spence and drowned me in memories I hadn't touched in probably at least 30 years. I wasn't expecting the flood of recollections, of possibilities, of connections that her answer evoked. I wasn't expecting to find answers there. And as they came, I was as bowled over as Spence was.
He has even more questions now. But I have answers he'll get in time.
Writing this book has been, for the most part, like spending months in a narrow dark tunnel with a couple of uncommunicative chimpanzees. We bump into each other a lot, and they try to tell me what matters to them. Only I don't speak their language and we've all been getting a bit frustrated.
And then, all of a sudden: breakthrough. One of them says something in a language I understand. Or maybe now they've been talking to me long enough I understand their language at last. Then the other one starts composing riffs and singing harmony and it all makes sense. And suddenly we're no longer in a tunnel and there's no darkness anywhere. There are just these wonderful emotions and memories and people named Spence and Sadie are talking to each other. And to me. And I can hardly write fast enough.
I got it all down. It was after midnight and I didn't want to quit. But they'd said all they had to say for the night. They were ready to turn in, even if I was willing to go on. So I quit, too. But I have what I need now. Last night, completely without warning, I had a glimpse of their past -- and, even better, a view of the future they can have together. And now I have the knowledge to see that it happens.
Of course they'll have to do a bit of suffering first. We're barely halfway there. But I know them a lot better now. There might be shadowy places and tunnels again. But the chimp suits are gone. We're speaking the same language now.
It was wonderful. Memorable. A real high. It's what I love most about writing. It's great to have a book accepted, to see it in print, to be told how much it touched someone else's life (which is really really wonderful indeed, but not why I write). But those moments when there is a pure full connection between the characters and the author and the page, those are the moments I show up for each morning. They're rare and beautiful and special enough to keep me coming back.
You can't plan it. You can't demand it. You can only show up day after day after day. And if you do -- and if you're lucky -- someday a character will say something that is the key to the story and makes it all worthwhile.
It happened to me and Spence and Sadie last night.
Who knew?
posted by Anne McAllister at 3:19 PM
2 Comments:
This is a lovely post Anne, thanks for sharing. I've not been able to write for the past couple of months (real-life getting in the way again). I'm now sorting things so that very soon I can resume my writing as a 'proper' job, and I'm feeling very scared. Scared that I can't do it, scared that I can, and basically scared fullstop!
Reading this post has reminded me what writing is all about. Especially the bit "You can't plan it. You can't demand it. You can only show up day after day..."
Well, I've decided it's time for me to stop being scared and just turn up each day until I get lucky too.
Thank you!
Sue :-)
Hi Sue,
I don't think you should think of it as "showing up for your proper job" a week from Wednesday or whatever. That will set up all the apprehension and it will be lying in wait for you, ready to leap upon you before you've even booted up your computer or sharpened your quill!
I think you need to sneak up on it. You need to slide in sideways, unnoticed, boot up the computer and go put in a load of wash. Come back and open your file, then go make a cup of tea. Carry the tea back and sit down and read a little bit of what you were working on. Tinker. Change a few words. Poke it a little. Then go away. And come back. And you'll find you are there longer next time because you see something that needs fixing. And then maybe you can see where it leads and then . . .
Well, you get the idea. Don't give the ms a chance to get all defensive on you before you even get there! And make it easy on yourself by having minimal expectations to get back into it with. You aren't expecting yourself to write War and Peace by Saturday that way!
Let me know how it goes! Good luck!
Anne
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