Writers, how patient are you? Do you really listen to what your stories are trying to say before you try to tell them to others?
Do you give your stories enough time to grow creatively, to blossom into their fullest form?
I run into plenty of newbie authors who have written a trilogy, zooming on to sequels full of plot twists and further adventures . . . before having contemplated and fulfilled the potential of their first (and most important, career-wise) novel.
In contrast, accomplished authors know the importance of taking time to reflect, to put work aside for a time, to come back later to revise. This passage of time involves actively listening to what a story is trying to say, to seek the hidden door to the treasure cave that lies hidden in the shrubbery of early drafts.
Why do the best authors often talk about reaching a watershed moment in the course of writing a novel – a state of mind in which the characters of the work-in-progress start to “talk back” to the author, resisting being pushed into pigeon-holes?
This is the point when you’re dreaming about the work, when you’re thinking in the back of your mind about it as you’re doing mindless, repetitious work like washing the dishes or going for a walk, when the brilliant solution comes unbidden and you have to scribble it down on an old napkin found in your car’s glove compartment.
“When I’m really writing, I’m listening. . . . [Listening] takes us places we have no idea where we’re going. Surprises always follow.”
– Newbery Medal–winner Madeleine L’Engle
To listen, you need to allow generous, quiet time to do it. Here’s a quote from a Milwaukee Journal Sentinel article by psychotherapist Philip Chard on the dangers of “hurry sickness”:
So one of the casualties of hurry sickness is the [lost] opportunity to contemplate, to apply one’s quiet attention to some experience or idea or to one’s sense of self and life purpose. Contemplative introspection . . . is an ancient and proven practice that supports emotional balance and mental clarity.
Historically, it was the preferred method for making important decisions, as well as for nurturing greater self-understanding. When someone had to figure something out or clarify their identity or sense of purpose, she or he would be cloistered away from distractions, often in a natural setting, where it was possible to fully focus on the issue at hand. Think of Jesus in the desert or Buddha under the Bodhi tree.
Sometimes you need to sit in silence and not do anything. Here’s some wisdom from an Inuit elder named Majuak, from Diomede Island in Alaska, describing a native practice of creative contemplation called karrtsiluni to Arctic explorer Knud Rasmussen in Rasmussen’s 1932 book The Eagle’s Gift.
In the old days, every autumn – we used to hold great festivals for the soul of the whale, and these festivals were always opened with new songs which the [people] made up. The spirits had to be summoned with fresh words – worn-out songs must never be used when men and women danced and sang in homage to this great prize of the huntsman – the whale.
And while the [people] were thinking out the words for these hymns, it was the custom to put out all the lights. The feast house had to be dark and quiet – nothing must disturb or distract the [people gathered there]. In utter silence all sat there in the gloom and thought, old and young – ay, down to the very smallest urchin, provided he was old enough to speak.
It was that silence we called karrtsiluni. It means waiting for something to break forth. For our [ancestors] believed that songs are born in such a silence. While everyone is trying hard to think fair thoughts, songs are born . . . rising like bubbles from the depths – bubbles seeking breath in which to burst.
[I encountered this wonderful passage in Bob Kanegis’ blog, Storyteller’s Campfire: Thoughts on Living a Storied Life]
Maybe your story could be better. Have you asked it?
As Trappist monk and poet Thomas Merton wrote: “Our reality, our true self, is hidden in what appears to us to be nothingness.” For writers, the real significance of your story might lie hidden in quiet cracks – in unspoken thoughts, in missing passages, in unrealized potential. The plot will chatter away, but the inner nature of the story is what you must listen to carefully, with the gift of time and quiet contemplation, if you wish to draw it out into the open, where the thought can become song.