Tracy Winn’s
“Reflections on My Process”:
The best part of writing a
story, is probably the rush of thinking I’ve finished — that sizzle
up the spine that comes with believing I have accomplished something.
A closing sentence announces itself. I type. I see the circle of the
story come around to meet itself. I hear closure in the rhythm of the
final sentence slowing the pace of words, coming to a stop, coming into
the station like a train, finding its long-anticipated point of rest.
For a couple of days, I’ll
walk around propped up by my secret success — there is a new story
written and I’m the clever one who wrote it. I marvel at the characters
I’ve brought to life in the story, savor the metaphors, and affectionately
retrace the connections that bind it as a whole. In re-reading it, I
might strengthen a phrase or two. However, I’m not really working
to improve it, just hoping to feel again the tingle of accomplishment
— the congratulatory pat to the ego — that goes with re-realizing
I’ve made something new.
Getting to this point of completion
has challenged me deeply. My process is messy and slow and inefficient.
It usually begins when I notice a quirk of reality like a blind man
hitchhiking, or a small child in expensive clothes giving the finger
to passersby in a park, or a solar eclipse reproduced precisely, in
miniature on the sidewalk a hundred times through holes in the leaves
of a sickly little tree. The wind shakes the leaves and all the tiny
eclipses projected on the ground, dance, igniting in me a sense of wonder,
attracting my imagination and inspiring me to begin something. I write
little blocks of a story — a paragraph or a scene to each block —
not knowing the story’s shape or where they will fit into the flow
of the piece. I move them around to discover what their proximity provokes.
Then I write in my notebook about what I see in front of me, naming
the possibilities of what happens in what order, adding new blocks and
discarding those that seem less vital.
My process resembles what my
great grandmother did when her edema was bad. She’d take up residence
in her rocker, crochet hook in hand, her ankles swelling over the tops
of her lace-up heels. She’d pile completed afghan squares at her feet.
Each square had its own color scheme and logic, but eventually it would
need to connect to its abutters, need to be sewn in so the assemblage
would make a sensible and pleasing whole. Similarly, the blocks of my
story must be hooked in and smoothed until seamless. So when that ultimate
sentence arrives for me, my relief and delight at having finished overwhelms
my better judgment. The fox of forgetfulness steals in and pilfers all
memory of other times I’ve “finished” a story.
The illusion of completion
can last for quite a while, during which the story sits on my desk.
Or, even worse, the story gets sent to some journal with a contest deadline
approaching. You’ll notice the passive voice in the last sentence
— as if I play no part in acting on the assumption that the story
is finished. But written work demands an audience as fervently as the
visual or performing arts. The story needs to create a reaction in someone
other than its writer. So begins the second stage in the process of
creation. I share the work with a trusted reader or two. They challenge
my assumptions. They ask questions that reveal their misunderstanding
of a key component of the story. I rewrite. Time passes. I get to know
the story a little better. I collect a few rapid rejections from periodicals.
Eventually, the reasons cited for rejection, the passage of time, and
the questions asked by my writer friends crack the illusion that the
story has arrived.
Time passing allows for a certain
distance from the work. I begin to see only everything wrong with it.
Before you can say “solar eclipse,” the story has become a poor
limp thing, dead in the water, an embarrassment to its maker, and I
wonder how I could ever have been so thoroughly deluded as to show it
to anybody, never mind sending it off to garner praise and awards. If
I am lucky and smart at this point, I will hear my former teacher, Tracy
Daugherty saying, “You have a beautiful problem.” His words remind
me that the reactions the piece has elicited from my trusted readers
are not all bad. They’ve recognized something vital in there that
might still be released. If I climb back into the story, sharpening
images, clarifying the shape and intent — those intangibles that have
begun to reveal themselves more clearly to me — I might still rescue
it.
I forget every time that the
real ending — the final sentence that replaces all impostors — won’t
make its appearance until the story has been tempered like glass or
steel by readers’ reactions, by time, and by revision. Inspiration
must be followed by challenge. And the story can’t really be completed
until after time has passed - long enough for me to know the story so
well that I can solve my “beautiful problem.”