Revising. Rewriting. Finding the real story.
The truth.
“All you have to do is write one true
sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know”—Ernest Hemingway.
That’s all.
Once there is a first draft, the real writing
begins.
Writing workshops provide essential moments
to move writing onto the next plateau. There was one workshop in Montana where
I worked on the first draft of my first chapter. Everyone was so supportive, but
I was at the beginning with the story. That “first” chapter is now gone. In the
course of the workshop, I struggled to keep my cabin stove fire going every
night. I’d throw in a couple of logs with enough kindling, strike, hover, and
toss in “dude dust.” And snuggle under the quilt. At the end of the workshop, I
left my cabin door open to the mountain air. The fire crackled into a warm
blaze. I learned to search for the right kindling, opportunities, and to
breathe.
My writing recipe includes that my story
simmer in a cast iron pot on a back burner, waiting for the right seasons.
There are always plenty of potatoes, and whatever herbs are growing on my back
porch. I think writers are natural gardeners and cooks. Maybe that’s when the
art of writing actually happens. Throw in a carrot or turnip every now and
then. Linnea’s Illuminated Notes
essays seem to spring from time outside, either gardening or walking. Nature
reveals one’s own truth, one’s own stories. The vegetables in my pot are those
close to the earth. Rewriting a first novel requires a nurturing bubbling of
seasons and fixings—to simmer and crackle.
Slipping into a cotton flannel shirt and
sitting down at the computer, I remember the "10,000-hour rule.” Outliers: The Story of Success, by
Malcolm Gladwell, described many examples of high success achieved after 10,000
hours learning and practicing craft. Time. Writing is a journey without end in
challenging self to write truth, sentence after sentence.
Walking with hot mug after hot mug, holding
onto thoughts weaving together, I glance out the window beyond my computer
screen and sit down on another writing day. While writing, the tops of the
crepe myrtles outside have turned white with early summer blooms. New views and
another font can mix ideas up enough to clarify editing and discovering the
most accurate words. Change fonts to see other ways to create narrative. So I
write on . . . to find my own best words and, maybe, one true sentence. Well,
at least a few true words.
A
MOVEABLE FEAST by Ernest Hemingway (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1964).
OUTLIERS:
THE STORY OF SUCCESS by Malcolm Gladwell (Little, Brown & Company, 2008).
