So, I’m trying an experiment. Bear with me.
Stacey, creative mastermind of this website, commented on my
post yesterday, (Cracks in Everything: Parenthood and the Writing Life),
that she often has a perfect blueprint for her day that somehow eludes her.
That applies to me, as well, not only in terms of days, but weeks, summers, my
whole life, for that matter.
Several years ago I sent my novel out too soon. I had a big
name agent who was high on the manuscript, and wanted to auction it to five
publishing houses with the idea of starting a bidding war. When one-by-one all
five praised the book but declined to make an offer, the surprised agent, who
once told me we would grow old and grey together, dropped me like a burning ember.
I don't blame him; it wasn't an efficient use of his time to wait around for me to develop. All this coincided with a move to Argentina that turned out to be a difficult year
for me. Suffice it to say, I was in sorry shape.
The book sat in a box for eons until a friend from my
writing group pushed me to take it out again. When I did, so much time had
elapsed that I knew exactly what to do. I could treat the manuscript like
someone else’s material. In retrospect, I am so grateful that the earlier
version did not sell; it simply wasn’t done. Yesterday, Laura Orem noted the Buddhist
notion that there are no true mistakes, just opportunities. My nightmare, in
this case, turned out to be a blessing. Of course, the opposite can also occur.
We’ve all had those. In short, expectations appear to be completely useless.
OK, the experiment. This morning I am jotting down five
expected highlights of the day ahead of me, the intersections through which I predict
the hours will turn and flow. Tonight, I will note down the five actual moments
that resonate as the day draws to a close. Here goes:
10 AM - Expected pivots, in anticipation:
- Drive
daughter to and from riding stable.
- Email
publicist regarding this afternoon’s interview, and NPR producer regarding
line edits.
- BlogTalkRadio
live call-in interview. (Argh! Nervous!)
- Catch
2:25 bus with kids to meet husband at Jacob Javits Center and join friends
for dinner.
- Sign
stock at Barnes & Noble and Borders.
10 PM - Actual pivots, in retrospect:
- Two
words floating up from a dream upon waking, “oasis” and “diasporas.” No
images attached, just the luscious, open sound of the vowels drifting on
my consciousness.
- Reaching
through Charming’s stall door to touch his neck, warm and moist with the
day’s burgeoning heat. His soft muzzle nudging my shoulder.
- During
the interview, when asked about the dead brother in my novel, remembering
all at once my cousin Annemarie, my age, dead at twenty in a car crash.
Her long, thick braids and quiet self-possession.
- A
downpour bowing the umbrella we huddle beneath. Feeling the knobby, wet cobblestones
of Gansevoort Street beneath the soles of my shoes.
- Just
now, checking on the kids in their darkened rooms. The sound of their
breath. Distant traffic. The dog’s sigh.
I love the line from T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, “The
roses had the look of roses that are looked at.”
So attached was I to my preconceived picture of my day that
I almost didn’t see the one that actually transpired.
