Ever since I was pressured into making a decision I was not quite ready to make, I have had what amounts to buyer's remorse. I try not to make snap decisions about anything except occasionally thrift store purchases since there is no way to keep them from getting sold, and the prices are so low that even I can risk ending up with something that may not fit. I can always put it back in one of those Goodwill bins with no harm done.
But decisions about the more intangible things are far more difficult to undo. If, hypothetically speaking, I were part of a team assigned a writing task and after some deliberation came up with workable words, this would be considered a good thing. If said workable words show promise as a framework for the task at hand, this would be even better. But what if the others become bored with the process or feel the need to hurry it along and as a result decide to vote even though it is merely a rough draft? And what if somehow the rough draft is deemed worthy of taking the place of a final piece of writing? What does one do when the unfinished project has just become the cornerstone upon which all else will be built?
One can send out frantic emails making requests that may or may not evoke a response. Another plan can be presented, but to no avail. It is over; the decision has been made.
But it is not finished, I protest. I entertain this conversation while I am driving to work. I sound angry so I try to adjust my tone. I think about a myriad of possibilities, none of which will be taken seriously. I wonder what will happen next. And though I would like to think there is still time to do something differently, in the pit of my stomach I know the truth. What began as a collaborative intellectual exercise that got my heart racing as I tried to identify phrases that would sound good and just the right words to communicate effectively, it all came to a screeching halt. A casualty of this experiment, I went into a free fall hoping for a soft landing. Instead I went splat on the cold hard pavement of "done."
It makes me think about some of the powerful documents of our time. I wonder how long it took the Founding Fathers to write the Declaration of Independence and how many drafts were needed to pen the Constitution. Did heated discussions ensue when one word was chosen over another word? Who received the inspiration for such literary genius and who was merely standing there holding a pen? At what point did someone recognize the need for the process to end? And who got to decide when that would be?
When I'm writing a prayer I know I am done when I cry. As narcissistic as it is for this to happen, it is my guide. I figure if I am not willing to be vulnerable enough to reveal my truest self, no one is going to feel anything either. Not looking for a way to manipulate, I get concerned with too much emotional honesty. But without that part of the equation, my writing would lack its essential quality. My intent is to coax the reader or listener to travel with me on my narrative quest to find whatever it is I am searching for. I do not want to disappoint by settling for a rough draft. Even if I have to edit, rewrite and edit a few more times, it is the way of the writer. It is the necessary and satisfying part of the process. It is what I go back and do with these blogs, even after I have published them. Another powerful way to enhance writing is by sleeping, allowing dreams and visions to fill in the gaps not forthcoming in the waking hours. What I do not know when my head hits the pillow may eventually find its way to me by the morning light. Writing has its own timing. It does not answer to me.
As for said hypothetical writing project, whatever words written hastily on that easel and strung together to accomplish a goal remain frozen in place, forced to represent what we had set out to communicate. But they were not done with their creative dance. They had not explored other rhythms. The night was young and they had barely begun to get to know one another. Surely there would be one more song; one more chance. Instead, the music ended and they were sent abruptly home. In a sort of limbo they exist, wondering what happened and trying to understand why their voices were silenced. Doomed to hang forever in their unsatisfactory, preliminary structure, they dream of what can never be. They long to be rewritten.
But decisions about the more intangible things are far more difficult to undo. If, hypothetically speaking, I were part of a team assigned a writing task and after some deliberation came up with workable words, this would be considered a good thing. If said workable words show promise as a framework for the task at hand, this would be even better. But what if the others become bored with the process or feel the need to hurry it along and as a result decide to vote even though it is merely a rough draft? And what if somehow the rough draft is deemed worthy of taking the place of a final piece of writing? What does one do when the unfinished project has just become the cornerstone upon which all else will be built?
One can send out frantic emails making requests that may or may not evoke a response. Another plan can be presented, but to no avail. It is over; the decision has been made.
But it is not finished, I protest. I entertain this conversation while I am driving to work. I sound angry so I try to adjust my tone. I think about a myriad of possibilities, none of which will be taken seriously. I wonder what will happen next. And though I would like to think there is still time to do something differently, in the pit of my stomach I know the truth. What began as a collaborative intellectual exercise that got my heart racing as I tried to identify phrases that would sound good and just the right words to communicate effectively, it all came to a screeching halt. A casualty of this experiment, I went into a free fall hoping for a soft landing. Instead I went splat on the cold hard pavement of "done."
It makes me think about some of the powerful documents of our time. I wonder how long it took the Founding Fathers to write the Declaration of Independence and how many drafts were needed to pen the Constitution. Did heated discussions ensue when one word was chosen over another word? Who received the inspiration for such literary genius and who was merely standing there holding a pen? At what point did someone recognize the need for the process to end? And who got to decide when that would be?
When I'm writing a prayer I know I am done when I cry. As narcissistic as it is for this to happen, it is my guide. I figure if I am not willing to be vulnerable enough to reveal my truest self, no one is going to feel anything either. Not looking for a way to manipulate, I get concerned with too much emotional honesty. But without that part of the equation, my writing would lack its essential quality. My intent is to coax the reader or listener to travel with me on my narrative quest to find whatever it is I am searching for. I do not want to disappoint by settling for a rough draft. Even if I have to edit, rewrite and edit a few more times, it is the way of the writer. It is the necessary and satisfying part of the process. It is what I go back and do with these blogs, even after I have published them. Another powerful way to enhance writing is by sleeping, allowing dreams and visions to fill in the gaps not forthcoming in the waking hours. What I do not know when my head hits the pillow may eventually find its way to me by the morning light. Writing has its own timing. It does not answer to me.
As for said hypothetical writing project, whatever words written hastily on that easel and strung together to accomplish a goal remain frozen in place, forced to represent what we had set out to communicate. But they were not done with their creative dance. They had not explored other rhythms. The night was young and they had barely begun to get to know one another. Surely there would be one more song; one more chance. Instead, the music ended and they were sent abruptly home. In a sort of limbo they exist, wondering what happened and trying to understand why their voices were silenced. Doomed to hang forever in their unsatisfactory, preliminary structure, they dream of what can never be. They long to be rewritten.
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