Wild and precious

It's time to do the thing

Dear Writer,

I remember when I was a kid, and I first really grasped the idea that someday, I would die. I remember having this sharp, sudden, acidic burst of clarity… I was going to die. Me. Just like everyone else.

Someday, I was going to die.

Whoa.

The sensation of that realization wasn’t entirely unpleasant; of course, part of me was scared at that idea, but also, there is something about that kind of deep truth that shuts down the noise of life and centers it all on one inevitable point of light, not entirely unlike those Magic Eye posters that were big in the 90s.

If you are unfamiliar with the Magic Eye posters, they’re basically just visual noise, until you stop looking at them. The trick is to set your focus beyond the noise, to a point further in the distance. That’s when the hidden image becomes clear, and you get that hit of understanding and clarity around an experience that, moments before, was nonsense.

I dried out my contacts staring at this. If you open the image up in a new browser window and zoom in, it’s a little easier to see. From Buzzfeed.

I had a similar feeling this week as I closed the applications for the Year of Writing Magically workshop and finished the administrative whatnot and started reviewing the applications. Suddenly, in the midst of all that taskiness, I had the thought that I’m not just going to be teaching the workshop. I’m going to be taking this workshop, too, and I got a hit of that single-point-of-inevitable-light sensation.

I’m going to be writing again.

I’m going to finish a novel.

I am committing to this process; not just teaching it, but doing it.

Whoa.

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It’s funny, because as I’m looking at the applications, a lot of what people are sharing is their fear. Fear that they won’t fit in to the group. Fear that they won’t figure out what they want to write. Fear that they’re not good enough writers. Fear, fear, fear.

Here I am, about to teach this thing, reading all these fears and resonating hard with them all.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Me, too.

I’ve written in fits and bursts these last few years, but I haven’t really written. Like dedicating-myself-to-the-process, getting-shit-done written. I haven’t finished anything. And in the back of my head the fears all huddle together, chattering like little birds.

What if I can’t do it? What if I’ve lost whatever it was that I had? What if I was never as good as I thought I was? What if I was good, but now I’m not?

Of course, the writing teacher in me responds with the same thing I would say to a student who came to me with that shit.

Outcome is not your business.

Good is not the goal; done is the goal.

This line of reasoning usually leads me back to poet Mary Oliver, who wrote, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

That’s really what it’s about, isn’t it? Not what you’ve done. But what you are doing. It doesn’t matter if this novel that I’m going to write is any good. If that’s what I’m thinking about, then I’m focusing on the noise, and not able to see the image that makes sense of the noise, which is further in the distance.

What am I doing with this time I’ve been given, with this one wild and precious life?

I’m writing, and I’m teaching others how to write.

I’m not above all the noise filled with fear and uncertainty. If I was, I wouldn’t be able to teach anyone anything. I’m deep within the noise, and during those isolated moments of clarity, I can see past the noise. I can see my path through it.

Nothing matters, other than that you are doing what you most wish to do with the time that you have been given. What comes as a result of that activity isn’t the point at all. In this moment, in this now, and in all the nows to come, are you doing the thing you most wish to do?

For me, this year, I will be doing that thing, once again. I’ve worked so hard to come this far and now I’m finally here, with a finite amount of wild and precious nows ahead of me.

And I know exactly what I’m going to do with mine.

What are you going to do with yours?

Everything,

L