I have written elsewhere (A Peculiar Darkness: Afterword) concerning the details of this journey through the composition of my first novel. I not only did not anticipate the possibility of such an adventure, but its unfolding process and detailed features never previously entered my mind.
In so many ways, I process and experience my life in an analytical way. My profession as a research engineer/scientist revolves around thinking, planning, trying, analyzing, and then trying again. Numbers, and their relationships with nature, often rule the roost. Laboratories, measurement instruments, data capture systems, and spreadsheets are my tools. To understand the physical nature of the universe, you must "put the question to nature," then measure and interpret its answer.
In my previous writing life, as an author of short, thought-provoking (at least my own thoughts were provoked!) articles and mini-essays, I usually took an analytical look at the world around me and my experiences—only rarely delving into something more daring, more exploratory. But a year ago, that all changed. I found myself caught up in something that, not only did I not plan, but in many ways, it was something I felt personally averse to. However, it seemed to take hold of the situation, compelling me to follow an unknown, uncharted course, ultimately leading to who-knows-where?
I felt swept along on the waves of a tide, controlled by the immense gravitational field of the moon, or the sun—or both? It was, at once, white-knuckled-scary, and yet, strangely exhilarating and gratifying.
Now that the major part of the creative work is complete, I can pause for just a bit, to think about (maybe "analyze!") what just happened.
I woke in darkness this morning, far before my alarm called my name. I found myself meditating on the whole process of literary creation I'd just experienced. The clear picture of what happened looked distinctly like a garden. Of course, living life as a gardener is far different from a life of engineering.
If I want to build a structure, I first put on my architect-hat and produce a design. This may seem an artful profession, and while it certainly can be, if the structure is simply, and merely, a matter of function, clear design rules of engineering mechanics will dominate. The draftsman (or now a computer program) will then produce working drawings, which will be passed to someone skilled in gathering a team of construction professionals. Each workman then leans upon the science and skill of his calling to pour concrete, cut and fasten wood framing, cleave and mortar stone, assemble plumbing and electrical components, lay roofing, and so on…
By applying well-known rules, principles, guidelines, and yes, even local, governmental codes, the edifice is built, and ready to be occupied.
A garden stands in definite contradistinction to a building. It is an organic—that is, living—thing. If there is no life there, there is no garden there. It is nothing, if not a community of life. And it became clear this morning, that this is how my most recent literary enterprise developed.
Of course, a garden exists in extremely intimate contact with soil—with the earth. If there is no soil, there is no base, no foundation from which the garden can spring. I saw that this soil—this earth, as old as it is—was all of my own life experiences to this point. And not only my own life, but the soil encompasses all of the lives that have ever touched my own life. This includes all of the authors, and their own literary works, that I have read, and been affected by. No artist lives in an absolute vacuum, but upon all the creative efforts which have come before. This is the matrix, the creative womb from which all our further creative efforts spring.
This soil provides the most basic—the elemental—components of nutrients for the growing garden. The very stuff of life was once dirt—particles of what was originally, the earth itself—minerals ground down into something usable by the garden.
But fallow, virgin soil, is not enough, if the garden is to thrive, if it is to burgeon with growth. It is critically important to incorporate organic matter into the garden's soil. We can do this by conducting research (reading, travel, investigation) having to do with the garden we expect to grow. And we may plan, layout plot, construct character profiles, and so on, to the end of enriching the nutrients of our garden. But these materials cannot (or should not) be directly incorporated into the garden soil. They need to be layered and piled into a veritable compost heap, so moisture, heat, microbes, macrobes, and the universal processes of time can degrade, upgrade, and ferment this raw stuff into a rich, organic elixir.
Once ready, the composted materials require the heavy labor of digging and turning them into the soil, integrating them into a fertile bed composed equally of mineral and organic matter. It is now ready for sowing.
The seed which we plant in the garden are tiny, hard bits, which look nothing at all like the garden plants we hope to raise. But inside, they are packed with the unimaginably small messages of DNA code—containing the mysterious instructions of how the garden's plants will grow. These seeds are the passions, the impelling forces, which drive us to write. We pull these seeds from where they have been hidden—where we have protected them from public view—and we carefully, painstakingly, drop them into the prepared soil.
We water the seeds with the sweat of our labor, with the tears of our suffering (for that is the true meaning of passion). And then we wait.
Depending upon the seed's genetic disposition, we may wait days. Or weeks. Some seeds—the bluebonnet and the mountain laurel—may lie dormant in the soil for decades, until the tiny embryo finally awakens, converts its seed-yoke starch into sugar, and raises it cotyledons—its first green growth—above the surface of the soil.
We want the seed to sprout immediately. We've done all the preparation. We've followed all the best practices. But we simply cannot make it grow. This is the mystery of all growth. While Jesus spoke specifically of the kingdom of God in this parable, I believe His words were meant to resonate with an agricultural truth already known to his audience—
"Night and day, whether <the farmer> sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how. All by itself the soil produces grain—first the stalk, then the head, then the full kernel in the head. As soon as the grain is ripe, he puts the sickle to it, because the harvest has come.” (Mark 4:27-29 NIV)
Once the plants have sprouted, and they begin to stretch toward the sky, the gardener's work is still not complete. Weeds, those plants not belonging in the garden, sap the garden's strength, wastefully using up the nutrients in the soil. And if they are allowed to grow too extravagantly, they may shade the desired plants from the sunlight, and choke them out. The gardener must mercilessly uproot the weeds wholesale. For the writer, this is the editing of the work. The book may seem complete—finished—but it most likely contains bits here and there, maybe whole chapters, perhaps even substantial sections which distract from the story, which dilute the reader's attention and investment. We may stand back, as the author, and admire all of the lush green growth, when, instead, we should carefully inspect what we have written, prepared to pull up and throw away all that does not belong.
And after the weeding is done, the editing process extends even to fairly mature work. In the garden, as years go by and the fruit trees mature, a pruning process must be part of the maintenance. In a well-grown, well-maintained peach tree, the sweetest and best fruit is found on what have been termed fruiting spurs. These are fairly short branches, replete with numerous smaller branches radiating from them. While these spurs produce little in the way of lush foliage, they more than make up for it in a profusion of spring blooms, followed in the summer by a rich cluster of large, excellent fruit. The gardener needs to identify these fertile spurs, encourage and train them, while branches producing a luxuriant growth of leaves need to be drastically decreased, in number and length. Likewise, the literary artist needs to tend his work carefully, identifying the luxuriant but unfruitful components for removal, and also discovering the richest, most fruitful portions, to encourage and enhance their effects.
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>>> Unless otherwise attributed, all text and images are Copyright, Bill Brockmeier, 2017. All rights reserved.
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