Back and Forth-Thoughts on Revisions
I am sitting in the cockpit here in Delray Beach enjoying the Sunday afternoon procession. The day is warm and bright. Chrysalis is tied up at the end of a dock, and from my vantage point I can watch the endless stream of leisure sail and powerboats as well as local fisherman traversing north and south along the Intracoastal Waterway. The Lady Atlantic, Delray’s own large tour boat, went by me a short time ago, with tourists hanging over the rails, taking in the scenery. And the scenery isn’t too bad. Lining both sides of the river there are well kept homes and apartment buildings, and draping around them, like a Christmas tree-skirt, green manicured lawns roll out toward the water. There are palm trees galore, some date, some coconut, and blooming hibiscus trees whose pink blossoms add a smattering of color that puts me in the mind of certain Caribbean islands we have visited. About two football fields away, I can see cars driving over the low lying Atlantic bridge, which rises on the half hour to let the larger boats pass by. Their wash pulls out the slack on our lines, and in response, Chrysalis sways gently. The downtown, with its hip restaurants and quiet art galleries, lies directly west over the bridge. Pedestrians, hot and sandy from the beach, make a beeline across the bridge for the nearest ice cream parlor, and there are plenty to choose from. It’s enough to cure the wanderlust even in me. I love this place.
This past Friday I announced to Stefan, who was sitting across the galley table from me doing schoolwork, “Well, there you have it. I am finished with the book. I’m sending it off to my publisher. Now I’m going to celebrate.” Without looking up from his textbook, in a less than inspired monotone voice, Stef said, “Good for you, Mom. What is it, like the tenth time you’ve said that?”
Smart aleck kid, I thought. Someone should have a word with his mother. But, alas, it was true. The first time I said it (and meant it) was back in March when we were still in Palma, Mallorca. Mike and Stefan had cheered and we had promptly changed our clothes and gone out to eat at an expensive Brazilian restaurant to celebrate. We raised our glasses and Mike said something like, “To completing a work of art.”
Shortly after that, I began working with an editor in New York who had the crazy idea that my manuscript was less than perfect. She kept insisting I revisit parts of the manuscript I had previously considered golden, or suggesting rather bluntly I might add, that I toss my flawless metaphors overboard and begin again. “This doesn’t work here at all!” she’d write me in an email. “Not sure what you were thinking, but you’ve got to chuck the whole page. While you’re at it, chuck the page after that as well. What you are after is….” Back I would go to knead a passage, attempting to see with fresh eyes the words I had already gone over a hundred times before. I paced the floor, mumbling out loud. I surrounded myself with Dillard, Kingsolver, Potok, and Updike, re reading passages like I was shaking the authors by the collar in desperation. I tried, all over again, to pay attention. My walks on the beach took on the quality of studying for an exam.
This past Friday celebrating my finished manuscript with a triple mocha at Starbucks was little less hedonistic because I was fairly certain I was in for at least another revision or two. My mom called Saturday night and when I told her I that I had sent in another round of revisions, she asked in so many words if I was getting discouraged with all the changes. “No way,” I told her, “It might be difficult, but doing all these revisions is making me a better writer. It demands that I dig deeper. With each revision I am surprised at what an editor or publisher has drawn out of me.”
I am remembering all this in the cockpit with an ice tea, and as I take a sip, the Lady Atlantic cruises by again, this time going in the opposite direction. I offer a casual salute to the captain like I always do and for some reason I recall the title of a book by one of my favorite poets, Luci Shaw, Writing the River, and think that whether you are an artist by occupation or simply attempting to live your life with intention, it requires that we, like the Lady Atlantic, travel back and forth along the same stretch of river, and try to see the same things we’ve seen a kazillion times before, from a different angle. To help in this regard, I spend an evening listening to good stand-up comedy. Look through the lens of a camera. Hang upside down from the bow of Chrysalis if I have to in order to gain an alternate perspective. And surprisingly, from somewhere, a new insight presents itself. The keys on my computer start tapping away. My pulse quickens. “That’s it. I’ve nailed it,” I tell myself. And this is what makes writing so exciting.
Right after the Lady Atlantic passes, a school of fish start jumping near the boat. Mike gets up from the seat next to me and grabs a fishing rod. He unhooks the silver spoon from the rod and makes a decent cast right into the thick of mullet intent on escaping whatever larger fish is pursuing them. We’ve been fishing this river for six months now. Mike’s luck hasn’t been the greatest the past few days.
“Maybe you’ll catch something this time,” I say in encouragement.
“Yeah. I’m hopeful,” he says.
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