Serendipity and Other Accidents of Writing
by Elizabeth Solar
serendipity[ser-uhn-dip-i-tee]. noun
1. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident
2. good fortune; luck
3. the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way
Last month, some civilian – non-writing -- friends of mine and I attended a reading at a local bookstore. An entertaining night of conversation and Q & A among three savvy Boston scribes, it was a fundraiser for a local women’s shelter. Not only did the featured authors contribute the proceeds from sales of their books to the non-profit, they also brought baked goodies and wine, and several prizes, which they raffled off at the end of the evening.
Serendipity Number One: My two friends and I each hit the literary lottery when our raffle numbers were called. On a rainy drive home, we were buoyed by our winnings, and a glass or two of the free wine provided. As I dropped off my friend Beata, she handed me a laminated letter-sized white document, and with a hug, told me she figured since I was the writer, I could probably use it. In a stupor of giddy disbelief, I stared at the friendly text announcing…
Serendipity Number Two: It was a certificate redeemable for a manuscript reading with an esteemed literary agent. Say what? An invitation to send a novel to a reader with professional bonafides. A chance to hobnob with someone who could potentially influence the actual promotion, and perhaps publication of my book. It was the happiest of accidents. I drove the rest of the way home, cranking up my favorite Sirius radio stations, mentally archiving which songs I might use in the HBO limited series adaptation of my book, which would surely follow my book’s publication.
And then, I woke up.
The next morning, coffee in hand, I walked upstairs to my office, and pinned the certificate to the message board above my desk. It looked…wrong. Rather than affirm my unlimited brilliance, its presence in my personal work space mocked me, accused me of being a pretender, a fake. Someone who, by fluke had cut their way to the head of the line. In short, totally unworthy.
For a couple weeks I wallowed in the goo of self-doubt and creative paralysis. Any writing was purely utilitarian, related to my ‘day job.’ In terms of creative literary output: Nada.
Anne Lamott famously said, “My mind is a neighborhood I try not to go into alone.” A writer’s life is often a solitary one. Our minds can be playgrounds where we let our creativity run wild, crafting situations and environs inhabited by characters both delightful and demonic. If we can give our characters the freedom to let their ids run free, well, why not us? In trying to prove ourselves worthy of the chance to have our work seen and heard we may strand ourselves in the lonely wilderness of self-doubt, or worse a prison cell with ever shrinking walls. In our solitary confinement, we might wait for someone else to spring us.
It doesn’t work that way. We have the key. In fact, that cage is unlocked. So, you don’t have to bust down any gates, just open the door, and walk right through. So that’s what I did.
While I wait for my work to be judged – er, reviewed, I held up a mirror to my manuscript, had an honest sit-down, and decided it was time for a few more repairs. The adrenaline of knowing the potential to share my story with a greater audience has stirred my curiosity and renewed my mojo. Some situations have changed, language streamlined, and the joy of writing – and revising has returned. Anticipation has replaced fear. Okay, there’s still a little fear, but it’s fueling rather than inhibiting flow.
Whatever the outcome of the next step, and the odds aren’t with me to wow the first agent I meet, Or the second. Or...well, you know. I am grateful for the experience. Being in the right place at the right time is lucky. Hanging in there, doing the work, and maybe, just maybe getting a chance to share it with someone else may be one of the happiest outcomes of this crazy writing life. But it’s no accident.
