Have you ever listened to a writer, or a philosopher, talk about life and discover that the word “process” is an oft-used word? That’s the quirky kind of thoughts that were top of the mind recently. He sat alone on his back porch on a mid-May day in upstate New York. He could hear the whistling wind move amongst the trees, yet the air movement directly surrounding him was stagnant. As he let the energy from the cloudless sky’s sun soak in, he closed his eyes. “How could there possibly be that many threatening weather sounds, so close, when the skies above had unlimited visibility. The calm before the storm? Or maybe the peaceful stirring of serenity? Either way, his eyes remained shut. The whistling breeze went quiet. A chorus of birds began their choral rehearsal. In the moment, he was able to find his way to the elusive peaceful place inside of him. The surroundings were perfect. It was highly unusual for him stumble into a location where nothing was in the way. The topography triggered him to pick up his pad and start jotting down random thoughts: “Good processes, usually lead to good results. Do not get married to process but respect it.” In the case of this day, the second the big yellow ball in the sky collided with his face he was building his story. All his beginnings started with questions. “How did I end up where I am presently?” That’s a query for the start of a book, not an essay. Next question: “Who am I? Who was I? Who Cares?” And then, just like that, you have the beginning of something.
In the next step of the process, there are more questions. Who is your audience for your story? The fact was he wrote for himself mostly, but in the front row sat others who had equal passion for their trade. Ideally, he wanted to write for everybody. Yet, he was aware of the impossibility of connecting with 100% of his readers. Therefore, he concluded the motivation came from himself, and the chips will fall where they may. Those were the first few words his filter purposefully allowed to pass across the stage. He laughed to himself about how much he stretched his altruism. “I write for myself.” He conceded. “Yes.” He thought, in this life all processes and final decisions begin and stop with, “me”. Of course, all writers attempt to write in universal terms to connect with the reader. Without clarity, a bond, a hook, or a purpose your audience will quickly seek another platform. On this day, his answer to himself was firm, “I write for myself. The process of prosing narrative can be both therapeutic and healing. He wrote for survival. In all those times of life when everything around him seemed to be souring his writing was still alive. Getting lost in the story the breathing comes easier as the adrenaline rushes through the body. The process of writing is not that dissimilar to the process of life. Everyday presents a different perspective to one’s view of the world. And everyday our lives and our perspectives regarding it change.
There comes a point in all accounts when the reader checks in to get stable footing on the road he is being led down. When the conveyor of the story checks with ground control in terms of direction. And then the difficult sometimes ignored questions: “what is the point of it all? Is anybody still following along? Have I done, ok?” Is there a plan or are you going to keep making it up as you go. He had a good laugh attempting to calculate the preparation/spontaneity ratio he had experienced in his life. He realized the importance of a solid plan, with the addendum that all plans need constant tweaking along the way. Like penning an essay life’s journey is filled with rough drafts before we feel comfortable presenting the final product. The initial dream starts to develop before adapting and evolving into stories that end up right where they started. He scribbled fast and hard, “this is all going in the garbage anyway.” Even as he uttered those words he searched in the rubble for the themes and ideas that sometimes are buried and never found. “Just keep writing, just keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep doing, keep failing. Then one fine day after all the facts have been gathered, they can be shined, buffed, and eventually packaged.”
If you are living life with an open mind everyday presents an opportunity to view yesterday’s circumstances in a different light. Every day we should take a fresh inventory of our story. What’s new since last we stared into the computer? Where is the story headed? How did yesterday bring anything new in terms of developing ideas? He wandered into a coffee shop to search for the words to complete his narrative amongst the other confessed seekers in search of a fleeting truth. Within the process of writing there is a nonstop flow of questions: “What is the purpose, why should the reader care? Is the story filled with hope and inspiration.” Sometimes it’s the notes from the day before, or a dream that you can recall as motivation. There are times you are in the middle of a story, and in your search, you discover sources that stimulate the story in a different direction. The night before he had unexpectedly bumped into a couple of high school chums, whom, he had not had a serious conversation with in 45 years. This chance meeting opened some vaults that otherwise would have remained dark. A conversation that, while intriguing and full of confessions, could have never taken place without the passage of decades. Nonetheless, he was grateful for this happenstance impromptu reunion. There are people in this life whose painful youthful experiences coming of age never completely heal. When he was senior in high school, he walked off the stage vowing to himself to run fast and far. He imposed an embargo on childhood friends and all characters from the past. He could admit now that he was a spoiled, disenchanted rebel who in some very sinister way thought he was special beyond practical expectations. The problem was nobody else noticed or cared. Now, he plopped down in a chair next to the two most popular girls in the New Paltz high class of 1978.
In the process of writing, not unlike the process of life you must reach inside yourself and open the door to the “hidden goodies”. Like the travels of life, writers at any one time have three or four stories simultaneously dancing around in their head. The normal goal of ‘stay in the moment’ gets bumped aside for not being able to find that moment. He chuckled to himself thinking of a machete, chopping away all the brush that always found its way to his mind’s writing place. The very first peck is usually proceeded with a check list of reminders:
1. He confirms the “theme” of his prose.
2. He reminds himself that when lost to return to basic principles and processes.
3. Think about the immeasurable periphery rewards that go along with the process of writing and having written.
Then he begins thinking of metaphors and analogies that are universally relatable.
The checklist brought him back to the conversation the night before, and the two old friends who knew him when snot was running down his nose. They had spent the evening reminiscing about those intense days of schoolbooks and holding hands. They shared stories only the three of them could appreciate. He could not have expected this unlikely encounter which put him in that uncomfortable position of feeling unprepared. Three old friends who hadn’t gone as far to avoid each other over the years, but also hadn’t searched very hard to grab a catch-up cup of coffee. Still, they appeared glad to be sharing some mirky high school parking lot news.
Another day another chapter. The day after his chance meeting he sat in a coffee shop thinking about all the years he spent hiding from the boogie monsters of his past. He now finally understood it was all about finding that balance between letting go and purposeful avoidance. You can run from yesterday but eventually it will track you down. He strolled away from the breakfast nook and over to a bench aside the old colonial church and watched Sunday morning come down. The sun was struggling to break through the gray sky. Endings in life, and in the stories can be joyous and they can also be devastating. Endings can be sudden surprises, or they can be calculated plans that are executed without a hitch. The indulging part about writing a new story is that with enough patience you can develop a resolution that fits your script. He had waited two days to see what, if anything, had developed since Thursday evening. As Sunday rolled towards late afternoon, he investigated his quiet surroundings. The 17th century place of worship stood in front of him as he looked for the “closure” that people too often mistake for salvation. He saw three sexagenarians in the present, having put the hard work in, sitting watching the sunset over the Catskill mountains.
The giggles regarding the who’s and when’s, the confirmation and denials surrounded by hard laughter all the way back to a day in English class 1977. The three of them were in the back row predicting their futures. What they were going to do and who they were going to be. ‘I’m going to be a famous interior designer.’ I’m going to be a schoolteacher,’ the third friend was hesitant. ‘I guess I’ll try it all. I’ll play the game and then tell the tale….. so we remember.
The three of them had gotten what they’d asked for such a long time ago.
