Veronique Darwin

When Is Anything Done?

In My Writing, Thoughts on Writing on July 27, 2014 at 1:41 pm

People ask me if I am almost done the novel I am writing, like it’s a novel I’m reading and I’m about to move on to another. I could give writerly excuses, such as I am creating a world, and a world cannot be finished. Or I could claim to be a perfectionist who will never feel finished but will be forced to stop writing at some point. But the truth is I’m really not in any way almost done. I’ve been working on the same story for over three years now (which might make you think I’m almost done) but the truth is the novel itself as I imagine it doesn’t exist yet. It hasn’t been written.

I’ve written parts of it. I’ve written drafts that look like novels and I’m done those. But I am not done the thing itself that I am making. Say you are painting a tree. You’ve painted a tree, but you meant to paint the tree you were looking at. Wouldn’t you have to restart, to get the tree you see and not the simple, other one you painted? Wouldn’t you have to add the branches just the way you see them, have the light hit right where the light actually hits? Yes, I’ve done paintings of trees, but I haven’t painted my tree yet.

I’m reading Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. I can read a page and be done it, but have I really read it? I’m trying this thing I used to do when I was young (a mental challenge) where I don’t use bookmarks. I open the book up again hours later and I try to remember the page number I had put to memory, or the last event I read about. It used to be easier than finding a bookmark, and gave me a lasting ability to skim through pages. But Virgina Woolf isn’t very skimmable. It’s hard to find an event I was last at. It’s made me realize I read books a lot less closely than I should. It’s made me think about the power of rereading, of never actually finishing a page.

Because if I read To the Lighhouse and put it down, did I really read the book? Did I finish it, as it was intended to be finished? I probably won’t have spent a lot of time thinking of the ideas in the book, contemplating the characters’ motives, their relationships, the importance of the setting of the book or the intention of the author in bringing them all together. I would have read the words, yes, but I might not have read the book.

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(from boardgamegeek.com)

If the intention of writing a novel is to have it published, then one should keep working on the book until it is publishable. If the intention of writing a novel is to write the novel one intends to write, then shouldn’t one keep working on the book until the book feels like the book it was intended to be? Publishing, I think, will never be my goal when writing a novel. It will be a way to give the novel life, to let others read it and to let it be the form of art that it is. Is a painting really a painting if no one looks at it? If the tree you painted (the complete art form of the actual tree you saw and then transcribed, somehow, with your paintbrush, until you felt it represented the tree you knew) were never shown to anyone, would it really matter that you had painted it? You would have seen it, but you saw the tree too. What about the person across the world who has never seen that form of life, who has his or her whole life imagined a tree of such beauty, but never taken the trip to visit it? I think you’re painting that tree for them, so you should try your best not to lie about it.

The Perching Penman

In My Writing on July 4, 2014 at 7:37 am

I’ve discovered a new way of writing: writing by perching precariously on the edge of the couch, as though one has so many better places to be but has decided to stay a minute or two. The temporary nature of the pose offers an easy way out if writing isn’t going well and easy congratulations if one stays longer than the seating position suggests. It also adds a certain energy to the process, and makes one look very alert were someone to come in and “catch” you writing. I overall think it is improving my craft.

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Nothing to do, nowhere to be

In My Writing, Teaching on June 13, 2014 at 7:05 pm

As a teacher on lockout, there’s very little to do, very few places to be. The same goes for writing, though the places I’m expected when working as a writer are not the classroom or the hallways, but those little areas in my brain where synapses signal but never touch. I’m expected to be thinking all the time as a writer, but when was the last time I sat and thought?

While driving, I’m either singing or paying attention to the road. While showering, I’m either singing or paying attention to getting clean. Any other time, I’m listening to something, watching something, or checking my phone as I’m doing things. Though I’m by myself, I’m very seldom with myself.

And I know I’m not writing much and that’s because of a series of excuses I could make into numerical points to make this a more readable blog post, but I’m also not thinking much like a writer. And is it fair to be concerned about that? Are there other jobs that ask for so much? Are scientists always supposed to be observing and hypothesizing; can philosophers take a day off? Because what if I was an accountant. What if I was a clown.

I went into teaching because I thought teaching and writing would be mutually inclusive. I thought they might even complement each other. But are teacher and writer both too pervasive of professions? Am I ever going to have a day off? Even now, as I sit waiting for the government to negotiate on the things that matter for kids and teachers, I am not taking the time to write. And still, it’s as though I’m waiting for something to change to allow me to write.

Nothing will change. I don’t need anything to change. I need to write in any condition. No one is going to provide me with those conditions; no one will sit down at the bargaining table with me. I could never go on strike as a writer because where would I put my picket line? Next to my desk? My brain?

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(fromhttp://psychicfocus.blogspot.ca)

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