Already it was five years ago– the most pressured-filled fall of my life. I was teaching full-time: humanities 9 and humanities 10, both of them curricula I had written. It was year 2 for the ninth grade, but only the first year for the tenth, which meant (as it always does, I think, when teaching a new curriculum for the first time) a lot of extra studying and preparing and Generating of New Materials.
I was also mothering full-time. Three beautiful children in the sixth, third, and first grades. There is no such thing– ever– as mothering part-time.
And I was writing my Master’s thesis. A wonderful project. I loved it. An analysis of modernism in Thomas Mann’s 1500 page novel, Joseph and His Brothers. Heard of it? Not many have. But if you get the chance to read it, do.
The thesis was due Thanksgiving weekend; the defense (of sorts), December 5th. There was no budging on these dates. There wasn’t a shot at any kind of extension. I had taken Absolutely All the Time available to me for this Master’s program: I had reached the proverbial — and literal — end.
Deadlines are essential, don’t you think so? Think of all the things you wouldn’t have bothered finishing if you hadn’t had them. Sometimes something has to make us do it, or else we’ll simply do Something Else– like sleep in, paint furniture, surf the Internet.
I didn’t do any of that in November 2007. And I’m not doing any of it now.
I’ve set myself a new deadline. It’s the only thing to do. What else will rescue me from myself and my distractions (they are rife)? I’ve been working on this novel for fifteen years (that’s embarrassing) and despite the reasonable excuses (see aforementioned three children, teaching/writing curriculum, graduate school), I Have Not Finished It Yet.
That’s just plain silly.
Okay, I will admit to having finished drafts. Er, a draft. And pieces of another draft. But still.
We’re in the third draft. The semi-final draft. The one that I am crafting oh-so-carefully and will eventually (Oh, I can just barely imagine it) Send To An Editor.
And it must be done by Thanksgiving. That’s three weeks to the day. To this day.
This only a little bit terrifies me.
I decided on this because– just a few weeks ago– I was sitting at the kitchen table, the same table where I am sitting now, one that– coincidentally– could stand to be painted, and I was working on this book, and I was remembering that November five years ago, the one frought with anxiety and determined trust in God and a (nearly) relentless work pace (I never worked on Sunday). Working on this book suddenly felt like that: I knew what was already finished; I knew what needed to be done; there was nothing for it but to move forward, inch by painstaking inch, paragraph by paragraph.
And it had worked.
Anne Lamott described it in her book about writing, Bird by Bird. As a child, her brother had procrastinated on a report about birds. Lots of birds. Far too many birds. And the night before it was due, he had all of it to write, and the sheer thought of it was agonizing.
There was only one way to manage it, of course. He had to begin. He had to write. And he wrote: bird by bird.
I have twelve solid chapters behind me. As this draft of the story has grown and expanded, it will clearly be longer than the previous drafts, but I can’t be exactly sure how. I just know what I have written so far, and what I’m working on now, and what needs to happen next. And I am amazed at how the story keeps coming. One would think that, given 15 years and three children and curricula and all the rest, this story would have died out long ago.
One would think.
One might also think that things like blogs could be my worst enemy. Why write here when already it’s the first of November, which gives me twenty days (20 days!) (ONLY) to finish???
Excellent question.
But see, here’s the thing: the other stuff– the Master’s thesis, the curricula, even the children (in their way) All Had Deadlines.
This novel clearly Doesn’t.
Or didn’t. Until now. This blog post makes it official.
And now here I go, off to work on the next bird, which is chapter 13, and to finish it before I pick up my kids from school. If I’m smart, I’ll write 14, too.
I certainly won’t surf the Internet.
