end of August days

I had had high hopes for this summer–was going to revise my entire novel in concerted focused effort, but I didn’t do that. In fact, I didn’t do anything I’d set out to do. On one level, I feel like a failure (to my own ambition)–on another level, I have to trust this as part of my writing process. Perhaps I just needed to rest and explore instead of carve a direct path to the destination.

One of my writing mentors this summer raised his eyebrow in surprise when I said I wanted to begin revision on a manuscript I’d completed 7 months previous.

“But that’s novel time!” he said. As in, too soon too soon–as in, 7 months isn’t anything in the scope of a novel writing timeline.

I brushed his commentary off. I wanted to start revision, dammit! And quite a few of my friends (on deadlines with agents and editors) began revision after finishing their first drafts, in a rapid progression akin to a car pulling a U-turn after missing a turn off. I wanted to do the same.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Like the volunteer squash in my garden, my summer has been about unexpected surprises that have derailed me, but not without lessons learned. I got hit by a car (it feels like an out of body experience, flying through the air after impact) at the very beginning of summer, and somehow I feel like the psychological and physical impact of that very act swatted me off one set of rails onto another.

There are plans, and there is life. As I wrote the first draft of my novel, I had plans, and then there were my characters’ lives; so many times their needs dictated the course of the novel, and I found myself surprised and delighted at unexpected twists and turns. The book is better for all the off-roading.

And my very slow revision process? Despite my initial desire to revise like a banshee, this slow return to my novel–well, it’s had me falling in love with it again as I savor passages and mull over scenes and chapters that need more character development, more work on the prose, dialogue rewriting. I’m learning about myself as I navigate this new territory called novel revision. It is very very hard work, but I am beginning to make progress, and that progress is so gratifying.

That mystery volunteer squash is coming into its own; I watch it with great intrigue as it swells and then pales. What is it? It looks more and more like a potential spaghetti squash (looks like my faithful reader Nate’s guess might be the correct one!), but it also looks like so many other kinds of squash, still.

Like that squash, I’m not sure where I’m going and where I’ll end up.

Now I am readying myself for Fall. I love Fall, but I am also dismayed because my free time is considerably scarce in Fall. I feel like I squandered my summer, even if it wasn’t entirely my fault, even if perhaps it was not my destiny to complete a revision, even if perhaps I wasn’t being realistic with my goals. Even if I managed to have some fun. Even if I have some great memories.

A girl’s allowed to have fun, right?

This pensiveness is compounded by my recent birthday. Every year, I put some thought into how I have led my life uptil this point, and how I would like to continue living my life. I like to look back and scan for lessons learned, for pivotal moments, for pivotal people, for people who loved me, and for people I love. I want to know what it is that made things better, and I like to envision more of those elements in my life, go forward.

I am thinking about people who are coming back into my life and how I would like to manage their return, and find more meaning in the initial separation. Some things in the past have taken on more clarity; enough time has now passed for me to see an additional pivotal moment now.

I am thinking of new people and new places and new experiences, and how the newness makes me feel like a child, in-love and enraptured and completely unaware of lurking danger and/or meaning.

I am happier now than I ever was. More sure of myself than I’ve ever been (even if I’m still filled with self-doubt at inopportune moments). One of the things that the last 5 years (so filled with unexpected and surprising lessons on sickness, death, and recovery) have brought me is a definite love of life, a love that I didn’t have in my earlier life, when I thought an early death might even be welcome. Now? I want to live until 100 years old. I want to be healthy all of those 100 years. I want to be happy all of those 100 years. I want to be productive. And I believe that there is a very good chance that I can be.

Even if I end up with a summer full of entirely unexpected experiences. Or maybe, this is the most pivotal summer of all.

Volunteers

My vegetable garden has inspired me throughout the years as a writer. Amending the soil, is like enriching the language in revision, or coming up with rich ideas as foundation for story. Planning the garden out, making sure the tallest plants don’t cast shade on the others come mid-summer, is like planning structure. Making sure to plant vegetables and herbs I eat–that’s like making sure everything in a novel has a purpose and serves the existing themes (you really wouldn’t plant celery if you had zero intention of eating celery, right? And you really wouldn’t create a character who didn’t serve the story, right?).

The occasional pest, like gophers, is another painful lesson: for a year I let that gopher live, and that gopher ate everything in my garden (it pulled down my tomato plants, it pulled down my chamomile, my dill, every broccoflower, pea plant, carrot and radish). I couldn’t bear to kill it, but in the end, I had to for the sake of my garden; I had to kill my darlings, as every writer must do. Every year, the garden, in addition to nurturing my body, teaches me a lesson.

At first, I unleashed one of my wiener dogs (the one with the hunting prowess and loves to roll around in dirt, not the one who doesn’t like to get dirty) to hunt it down. Scarlet the Wiener Dog had a lot of fun pinpointing its location and unearthing its many underground tunnels (did you know that dogs don’t close their eyes when digging underground? She emerged with very irritated eyes):

But in the end, it was I, the gardener, who had to take matters into my own hands. Because the wiener dog never actually found the gopher, I set the trap. Writers have to do this, too. We have to take matters into our own hands; we cannot hire a proxy.

Now this year: volunteers. Volunteer plants are plants that grow on their own, without intent, blown in by the wind, or dropped by a bird, or as is most likely the case of mine, it’s mixed into compost that is introduced into the garden before the seed has broken down.

I admit: last year, before I got a compost bin, I got rrreal lazy and threw vegetable bits straight into a corner of my garden. So the reality is that this vegetable is likely one that I have eaten before–perhaps it is grey zucchini? Or a melon? I hope it’s summer squash and not winter squash–I’d hate for it to interfere with my triamble squash seeds (as I understand it, two different winter squash plants will cross pollinate and produce seeds that are not “true”).

Now this post is twofold:

1. I am wondering if one of my dear readers can tell me what this volunteer plant might be (the one pictured above and at the top of this post). Is it a summer squash like I suspect? Perhaps a grey zucchini?
2. To talk about volunteers as a metaphor for writing.

I wrote the first draft of my novel, and at times it was tedious, like pulling teeth from my characters. Putting words down just to get the words down, in what felt like the most unnatural progression. This part of writing is dreadful; like knowing I’m getting more lost by the minute, like walking into the WRONG part of the forest or getting off the wrong offramp. But I kept going because sometimes you have to put down the shitty words before you get to the good stuff. (I have to believe this, people).

But! When it went WELL–I felt the words flowing. When it went REALLY WELL, I felt delighted and surprised, sometimes even going as far as to laugh out loud. REALLY laugh out loud at what spontaneously appeared; whether in funny dialogue or stunning character action. This did not happen as often as I’d like, but it did happen–and it almost always felt spontaneous. (Here’s the irony: I sit and plan and plan and sit and write and write and plan in order to achieve that moment of spontaneity).

That feeling of spontaneous inspiration? It’s like a volunteer plant. Despite all that actual planning, I didn’t plan for it to exist (though it’s very welcome), and in some way, it feels like it was planted there by the Muse/G*d/Fate/Wind/Bird/Compost. I don’t know what the volunteer inspiration is going to turn out to be, but I let it grow, out of curiosity and delight, and because it FEELS right. And oftentimes, that’s the best part of writing, and the best part of story.

Now I have to nurture the plant, and identify it to make sure that it grows well, and that it fits into the scheme of things. I’m going with it.

What has popped up in your life and writing that was unexpected? And what did you do with it?

And um, what IS my volunteer plant? Do any of you know?