Writing About Not Writing About Writing
by Elizabeth Solar
Half my life is an act of revision. – John Irving
Upon this quote my writers tribe and I built this blog. Six women writing ‘that’ novel. And rewriting that novel. Most big ambitions in writing, or life, occurs with, in the words of singer songwriter Shawn Colvin, ‘a few small repairs’. Or as in virtually every single show on HGTV, extensive renovation.
Revision is an enormous undertaking. We take hundreds of pages of words, sentences, ideas we have fashioned from the recesses of our subconscious, life experience, people who have populated our lives to meticulously determine what stays, gets deleted, is embellished or enhanced. I think of revision as analogous to tailoring: It’s one thing to design a beautiful evening gown. It’s a different challenge to re-fashion that frock into a knee length sheath cocktail dress.
Enough with analogies. This has been a long prelude to an admission. In the course of the previous week, I’ve attempted various pieces on craft to share in this space. Reality, or my perception of reality, has interfered with those good intentions to create something about writing that is serviceable or thought-provoking. The last two weeks and if I’m honest, much longer than that, have been fraught with events not only troubling, but downright disheartening.
As a society we share neither the ideology nor vocabulary - nay, facts - to speak to each other with mutual understanding or acceptance. Institutions that were at once revered, are now distrusted. Many deservedly so. The truth, which, may be out there, is a slippery proposition with little consensus but all shades of validity to suit our own personal ideology. It’s enough to put one in an existential crisis, the point of this post.
To be fair, there are some reasons to be cheerful: more socialization with loved ones, a dip in unemployment, the return of live events (hey, I’ll take any wins). Still the catalog of bad behavior and horrific events includes a proclivity for decency to be politicized by cynics who value ambition and their own position over the public good, safety and service. Misguided citizens who translate hatemongering language into action, traveling to faraway communities to perpetrate violence on people who aren’t like them.
Infants lacking nutrition while multi-billion-dollar companies fuel energy and culture wars that hurt the most economically vulnerable among us. Politicians and policy makers from a segment of our republic who select an anti-democracy nationalist as their conference keynote speaker. A downer on Wall Street. An uptick in hate crimes. Ukraine. A long tail of Covid and you have yourself a legitimate FUBAR* situation.
Doom and gloom? Feels that way some days. Despite that, I am still ridiculously optimistic we are capable of throwing that Hail Mary pass to snap out of whatever abyss this is. That we wise up, kid. That we will do better.
In the meantime, I’m taking off the week writing about craft. I’ll to take a walk in the woods, experience my life and hang with my people. After all, isn’t living the inspiration behind all our writing?
*FUBAR
out of working order; seriously, perhaps irreparably, damaged. I.e., ‘The clock in the hall is fubar.
The military definition, and my personal favorite: ‘F-d up beyond all repair’.
