I just finished some rewrites on my short story entitled The Orchard. It was one that I had written some months ago while I was in a short story writing class at State. Like most, the idea of it had originated during an in class free write. But like most, it ended up languishing in my notebook for about a year before forming into a story during this class. I finished it and another during the six weeks I was there and on the strength of my convictions I had sent it off to a magazine contest, both to get exposure and valuable feedback. It was rejected; but I did get some great feedback. This was one of the reasons I had chose this particular magazine, because they promised, like some, that they would make line by line comments; and they did. A lot of them. The woman who evaluated my story was very sweet and supportive. Her comments were also eye opening. She suggested that I add another scene. something to soften the story up. I reread her comments several times after which I printed them out, filing them away, attached to my hard copy. And that's where they stayed. In my filing cabinet. In the closet. Collecting dust. It wasn't because I was angry or hurt. Quite the contrary. After reading her comments I knew that I had to just put the story away until Channel showed me some guidance. That guidance came about two weeks ago just as I was falling asleep. It was the missing scene. Not laid out in detail. Channel doesn't work that way. I was excited, intrigued, and a little mystified when I sat down because I didn't know how it was going to end up. But when I began to type the guidance came and I was in the zone for about 3 hours. That germ that first appeared that night became an idea that became what I can only describe as the main thread of the story, the thread that holds it all together. So I continued to write furiously, that is until my lap top went, BLOOP. Yup, you guessed it. The damn thing powered itself down before I had a chance to save the rewrite. Now this could have had something to do with the fact that I had neglected to plug it into an outlet in the first place but I refuse to admit out loud that I was that..... well neglectful. I do remember though crying NOOOOOOOO just after the screen went black but after a while I was OK. I guess all writers experience this at some time or another.
No?
Really?
They all remember to plug the damn laptop in?
Really?
Oh, sorry, I'm drifting again.
The reason I was not mad, well I was mad at me, but the reason I didn't stay mad at me was because I knew that Channel would still be there, waiting, ready with more guidance, for the next time I could sit down to write.
I remember when I first started writing I would stop whatever I was doing if a story began forming itself in my consciousness. Then, I was terrified that if I didn't write it down immediately I would lose the seed, or even worse, that Channel would just close down forever. It took time, a lot of time, before I realized that I didn't have to capture in the moment whatever was being written in my head. It took me a lot of time too to understand that my writing wasn't just about the act of writing. It was also about the vehicle that I was to use to relearn the act of trusting in what I could only describe as a spiritual entity. I was good with the religious stuff, always had been, even though I laughingly refer to myself as a lapse Episcopalian, if there is such a thing. But to trust again. After my trust had so horribly been breached. That was asking a lot. So I began to test Channel by writing when I had the time and not when the seed appeared. At first I was scared but I did it anyways. I would purposely not write until after a week or so just to see if the idea was still there. It always was. Not only that, I was also gaven seeds of ideas that Channel would later build on like my short story entitled The Orchard.
This act of trusting has also effected other parts of my life as I have also begun to learn how trust the guidance that I now find to be so essential to my daily activities. I have to say too that I am continually amazed at the power of this; this act of trusting in a power greater than myself. Maybe, in the end, this is what it is all about anyways. Why I was given the gift of writing. I guess only the Goddess knows for sure. And that for me is the greatest part about it all.
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