["United Nations" Scene from Rushmore]

I had my writing class tonight, so sleep is still a distant idea.  It is now after 10:30pm, and I am usually sound asleep by now, but every Wednesday for the past eight Wednesdays this has been my routine.  I come home from class wide awake and energized to the point of feeling like I could write my next book before dawn.  This evening was made all the more tingling by the fact that I read one of my pieces in class, an intense piece that I’ve been working on obsessively since last week.  I started on it less than a week ago and am already on my eighth draft, and after tonight’s comments and questions it will continue to evolve, grow, and change course.  It is as if I was given a gift last week when I wrote the first word of the piece, a gift wrapped in layer upon layer of colorful paper.  With each draft, a new layer is peeled back, and I don’t know what I will find underneath.  I could uncover just one more layer and find the gift I have been searching for – the meaning and direction of the piece – or I might have to keep going and get to a point where I discover I have been unwrapping not one box but two or three.  This piece has a ways to go, and that is fine.  I feel this way about my writing in general.  There is so much more I have to learn and understand about writing, about my own writing, about my weaknesses and strengths, tendencies and shortcuts.  I am learning not only how to write but who I am as a writer.

My work as an artist has given me command of a number of tools I can use as a writer.  The idea of spending time on one draft only to alter it beyond recognition in the second, third and fourth drafts does not bother me.  I have spent hours and days on works of art that eventually got covered up by a new layer of paint, scraped off or otherwise completely covered over.  On one of my current mannequin projects, I spent all morning gluing on the first layer of papers – covering the entire torso with tiny, hand torn pieces – only to have them all fall off the next day.  (Note to self:  make sure glue to water ratio is carefully measured).  I also know when to walk away from a piece – artwork or writing – when I’m feeling stuck.  In those instances I have to listen to my instincts when faced with the choice of trying to push through or letting it sit quietly while I work on something else.

I am still learning how to be more flexible as a writer, still trying to let myself write everything I need to write on a subject before I try to figure out what it means.  This is my biggest challenge – an area where I am getting in my own way of digging as deep as I can into all the tiny details that make up a story.  Searching for meaning is what I do pretty much all the time, so it will be interesting to see if I can let loose the reins on trying to decipher what every bloody experience in my life means as I learn how to write for longer stretches of time without needing to know what it is about.

I had a moment in class tonight where I almost burst out laughing – at myself.  I was feeling a bit nervous right before I read, and suddenly imagined finishing my piece and having everyone in the class burst into applause, teary-eyed and touched by how perfectly I placed every word.  It immediately reminded me of the opening scene in my favorite movie of all time.  I knew my piece wasn’t perfect, knew it needed more work, knew every word would never be “perfectly” placed, because what does that even mean?  But it was a funny thought that calmed my nerves, made me think of my favorite movie and made me think of my favorite lines from that movie:

Herman Blume:  What’s the secret, Max?
Max Fischer:  The secret?
Herman Blume:  Yeah, you seem to have it pretty figured out.
Max Fischer:  The secret, I don’t know… I guess you’ve just gotta find something you love to do and then… do it for the rest of your life. For me, it’s going to Rushmore.