Egads, What I Did Years Ago and Abandoned is Good! (A Dilemma)

Office Hours

I had a great time on my recent Colorado trip - deep thanks to Lighthouse and the Colorado School of Mines for hosting me.

I had a deep experience at Mines - my alma mater. My host took me over to our base for the day, the Honors House and, lo and behold, it was where I’d lived during my junior year, which was a difficult year for many reasons, and was the year, also, when my artistic aspirations really started speaking to me.

At the end of a long, beautiful day of talking to students and touring the campus and giving my talk, I got a chance to spend a few moments in the exact location of my old desk, where so much of that foment took place, looking out at a view I hadn’t seen in forty years (Illinois Avenue, streetlights in the maple trees). Forty years had passed but I could remember keenly how bad I’d wanted to, someday, be a publisher writer. And there I was, this old guy, in that exact spot (moved, grateful). It was such a direct experience of Time, Having Passed.

I’ll never forget it.

Me, gesturing rather inexactly up toward my old room.

The room (and view) in question. Lots of Thomas Wolfe imitations written here, circa 1979-1980.

I gave a talk in a room beneath the Green Building, that, as I entered it, was where we used to have our dances. It was the sight of a huge tapestry on one wall (new in 1980) that flashed me back. As a friend of mine used to say: “The MIND, man!”

Now, for our question of the week:

Q.

My writing is tidal: I’m freelance, I get a job, become disillusioned, dream of a different life, write some stories, become skint¹, get another job, repeat.

I have folders of unfinished stories. Which I sometimes reread, hoping for a headstart, then flinch at how shonky² they are.

But worse are the times… I go back and read one I have no recollection of writing. I see there are multiple drafts, varying titles, I see it’s been worked on. I see that the date is over 10 years old. The notes added to it, are by me.

But the terrible thing is: it’s good - better than anything I’ve been writing recently. And my fear is that- is this even mine anymore? If I start editing this, will I ruin it? Can I honestly, hand on heart say I wrote this?

My friend Bill, a painter, had a nightmare before his private view, that someone had broken into the gallery and painted on top of his paintings. But the horror of his dream, was that the paintings were better.

Is this a filing question? How do you divide and conquer, how do you choose how to go back in, how to order the stories, what should you do when you find a good one. I’ve never tried hard enough with publishing, I get a few rejections and then need to get a job. So never really push through. Now I’m not even sure if it even matters if my stories are published.

Is this a question about death? The deaths we pass through all our lives. The chapters that fall away, the young people we see who we have been? The concerns that no longer strike us. The desires that no longer plague us? The loss of potential, the lack of will power to finish, the placing of blame on having no mentors or champions?

Does reading old stories undo the comforting salve of forgetting? Maybe it would have been better to never have discovered the story. Maybe it would be better not to write. But here I am, still writing.

Anyway, it’s not a clear question, but if there’s something in there that rings a bell, I’d love to know how you navigate that.

Thanks for Story Club, it’s great.

A.

Dear Questioner,

First, regarding, “Is this a filing question?” – if it is, I’ve written about this before, right here.

But…I don’t think it’s a filing question.

Those of you who’ve been in Story Club awhile will know that I have a very high opinion of what I call (probably inaccurately) “the subconscious” – that vast resource that we gain access to by (in my experience) revision and which is so smart and also good-willed - it wants our story to be good and for us to be in touch with truth and so on.

So, my short answer here is: yes, jump back into that old work, trusting that the subconscious wants what’s best for you, and that even as you work on the story, and sometimes make mistakes, the subconscious (timeless, wise, forgiving) will be guiding you toward the best version of the story, if you trust it and give it room to play.

You asked: “Can I honestly, hand on heart, say I wrote this?”

Yes, you certainly can, because, if not you, who did/who will have?

You might just want to expand your definition of who “you” are. “You,” as a writer, are: that person who patiently managed his or her subconscious, over whatever time, and in as many iterations, as was needed. “You” are the accumulation of all of your interactions with the story, past, present, and future.

You asked: “If I start editing this, will I ruin it?”

I think you have to say to yourself: No, I certainly will not ruin it. (And if, perchance, you do, at some point in the process, feel you’re making it worse, take comfort in the fact that you can always revert to that earlier draft – which might be part of the subconscious’s long game.)

But…you won’t ruin it. You won’t. You have your good taste to guide you. The same taste that is telling you, now, that the old draft is good will be there to help you make it better, and tell you if you’re getting off-track.

Being an artist is not about knowing who you are as an artist, but, rather, remaining curious about the various ways one’s talent will manifest

I am always trying to lessen that sort of artistic nostalgia we are all prone to; that habit of fearfully distinguishing between me back then (good, talented!) and me now (all washed-up! prone to error!), taking comfort in the fact that the mind that is now admiring that old work is the same mind that made it, and that it is admiring it for a reason (i.e., my mind, now, still has good taste) and should therefore be able to step in and pick up where I left off.

So, my advice is: leap back into that old story, confidently but respectfully, with some light, playful energy, and see what it wants you to do now.

Any lines feel like they might benefit from some tweaking? (That’s writing). Any questions arise? Any ideas for new scenes come up naturally? (Ditto: when a reaction arises and you do something (even the slightest thing) in response: that’s writing.

During that process, try to believe that good things will happen. This lessens one’s anxiety and makes more space for surprise and discovery.

You might even tell yourself that you’ve stayed away from that story all this time exactly in order to get ready for it.

You asked: “Is this a question about death? The deaths we pass through all our lives. The chapters that fall away, the young people we see who we have been? The concerns that no longer strike us. The desires that no longer plague us? The loss of potential, the lack of will power to finish, the placing of blame on having no mentors or champions?”

I think art works this way, or at least it does for me; we have to give our talent time and room; we have to make a welcome place for it; we have to talk to it generously, all the time; we have to be a good partner to our creative selves, instead of a suspicious auditor. (I can, yes, sometimes be a harsh editor on myself but that, too, I try to see as an act of friendship/tough love.)

It’s natural, of course, and maybe even somewhat healthy, to doubt our work (to look at it skeptically) but this can go too far.

There can also be an element of ego, or attachment, in all of that anxious self-doubting.

If we focus on “I am so bad,” or “I am so good,” statements, we might not be asking the essential question, which is: “How am I?” That is: “How am I doing right now, today, in this part of the story?” Fear (or celebration) can put a haze in front of the actual energy of the story; it’s a form of data-impeding distraction, we might say, like mentally re-living a heated conversation while driving. (Important things are happening but our mind is busy and is restricting our awareness.)

I try, when revising, to imagine my mind as a blank, quiet thing, so I can more accurately watch what it does in response to the lines I’m reading: no hope, no despair, all genuine, spontaneous reaction.

My former colleague, the poet Michael Burkard, used to talk about “back-door ego.” This is the habit of self-abasement we all have, in which “I suck” is just another way of saying “I am vastly important.”

Either attitude can prevent us from seeing the work in front of us for what it is. We over-invest it with importance, put too much of our feeling of self-worth on the product.

Better, I think, to regard our work as if someone else had done it.

“Do I like this? Do I want to keep going? If not, why not?”

As opposed to, you know: “If this isn’t good, I suck!”

Speaking of Michael Burkard, he also used to tell this story, which I’ve recounted in an earlier post having to do with this question of “which reader to trust” (it can be found here).

One day, Michael was cleaning out a desk in his office that, over the years, had filled up with student manuscripts and correspondence and so on. He pulled out a student manuscript, started to read it, and was impressed. Really impressed. These were really good poems. Wow. Then he looked to see who the author was, and it was….him.

And it all came back: this was a book he’d been working on five or ten years ago, that he’d despaired of and abandoned and entirely forgotten about.

He read it through to the end, liking it and making very few changes, then sent it off to his editor – who immediately accepted it for publication.

And that book is Pennsylvania Collection Agency.

You asked: Does reading old stories undo the comforting salve of forgetting? Maybe it would have been better to never have discovered the story. Maybe it would be better not to write. But here I am, still writing.

The truth is, we might fail, and might not always write up to our standard, and there can, yes, be times when we do, in fact, lose some measure of our mojo – but why assume any of that in advance?

I like to assume that my creative mind is a constant, reliable thing located somewhere out there, and that, if I just trust it, good things will happen.

Is this “true?” Well, I don’t know – but I like how it simplifies everything. I don’t have to worry; I just have to work.

1. Skint: “having little or no money available.”

2. Shonky: “of low or questionable quality, reliability, or integrity, or shoddy, unsound, or fraudulent”