Dispatches from the writing desk: bless this mess, or self-doubt.
The writer is a miserly creature--a reverse Narcissus, always gazing at his own reflection, but bemoaning its imperfections, which the intense self-scrutiny of a writer's life keeps constantly before his eyes. And this isn't a by-product of the job description, it is the core of the task itself. Only by knowing himself to be flawed, and still speaking a message of hope, can the writer reach and uplift the reader, and maintain credibility. A writer's work is always a projection of his or her better self--as in, this is who I would like to be if I weren't this wretch of a human. In a similar (but more modest) way as the Gospel does, the writer points to an ideal that is almost too high to reach, but towards which one keeps on striving. The one thing that keeps the writer from falling into the muddy puddle of his own reflection and sinking in the mire is hope. But hope is a mechanism that constantly needs cranking and winding. This, as it were, is the work.
I take a great deal of comfort in the writings of Henri Nouwen. Here is someone who lets the messiness show through--his Genesee Diary is a good example of this. Here, I recognize myself: the self-doubt, the self-righteous anger, the need for social contact and validation. Yet, in some of his other work (like, for instance, The Way of the Heart) he paints a picture of that well put-together ideal I aspire to. What a relief, then, to read him write that he is much better at reading & writing about prayer than he is at actually praying! I realize that both images--that of disheveled and of slick Nouwen--are two aspects of the same man. And so, then, it must go for all the writers I admire.
Naturally one wants to put forth a better self, yet all, I am beginning to understand, are potentially--are most probably--as messed-up as I am. Annie Dillard may very well, like me, spent too much time fussing over relationships, how so-and-so feels about her, and what he really meant when he said such-and-such. Mary Oliver may wish, as I do, that she could afford a new pair of shoes, and a trip to Italy. Surely we are, the lot of us, petty and silly most of the day. The best ones of us can ignore this long enough to write something decent in the voice of that better self that may emerge, may exist, once in a while. We're all half-blind, reaching for our glasses.
Time to cut the idols down to size, and take courage: these deeply flawed human beings have put out great works, which I love and admire. Surely it is vanity to think of myself as worse than they are, and as such, less capable.
Mary Oliver proposes this most salient question as a manner of interview for the would-be writer: "How patient are you, what is the steel of your will and how well do you look at the things of this world?" And here is her shining reply--if your first answers are shabby, you can do better. It is about skill, not inherent suitability, and skill can always be improved on. So, one has been given a messy self--one needs not rest there. This gives me hope--which is great, for hope is what I need.
These thoughts may not be deep or new, but they're all I got right now. I spend the night at the pub with friends and talk a bunch of crap, and feel bad, and the next morning I need to write. Some days it is harder to do the latter in the light of the former. This is one such day. This is why, along with the previous quote from Oliver, I keep this one pasted above my desk: "Always there is something worth saying about glory, about gratitude." This is a good place to begin. I need not fret about not being the moon--indeed I need not be the moon--all I need be is the finger, pointing, however dirty and wobbly.
