On Works in Progress and Feelings of Failure, Again
There was a building at the residency undergoing minor construction. When I first arrived, several people were installing a skylight; on weekends, the work froze in place. For days there was a ladder on the roof, marking where they’d stopped. Surrounding the building: a digger, several holes in the ground, a sense of work in progress.
What does something look like when it’s in process for you?
This Log is an ongoing example of work in process. It began two summers ago and has been a place for me to “show my work,” experiment with ideas and invitations, draft sections of the nonfiction book I’m writing, and steadily grow my bullpen of questions.
I found my way to Culture Forms through my life as a writer, but I often find writing about the work I do now to be an excruciating exercise. Whenever I hit the familiar wall of my limitations as a prose writer, I find myself embarrassed. Clear, concise arguments are not my strength. It’s OK. I have others.
Poetry, on the other hand, is not about certainty. In Culture Forms and in my life, I have grown most from moments of nuance—the in-between conditions that are more lifelike than black-or-white thinking. I once wrote an essay about many things, among them that life makes more sense to me when the ball doesn't find the pocket in a game of pool. I don’t think that philosophy makes me undetermined; I still try, it’s just that I’m familiar with what trying looks like—sometimes you win and sometimes success doesn’t come easily or at all.
A year ago, I accidentally began writing a novel. I finished a draft in eight weeks. I had never intended to write fiction, but it was a surprising and effective coping mechanism for a frightening period of time for loved ones.
In January, weeks before I got the news that there was a spot for me at the residency, a mentor and friend asked: if you could point the needle at writing or consulting, where would you concentrate your efforts right now? I answered that I needed the needle to keep pointing in both directions, at least for the next little while. It followed an important lesson my mother taught me in high school: when you get stuck on your math homework, take a break with your English homework, she said.
My friend’s question was prescient, and across the last six months, I keep returning to it. I’ve sent queries for the novel to 40 agents. There have been some serious considerations but no takers yet. I’ve been sending proposals for the nonfiction book to agents across the last two years. I observed recently that whenever I receive a rejection, I don’t wallow for long. I make minor adjustments and send it back out again; the ticket of anticipation means there is still a chance it may not be rejected.
My experience of the creative process depends on the very nature of creativity. Put another way: things keep changing; time doesn't stand still, whether we ignore our emails or not.
When I apply for a fellowship, I tend to begin the work I say I’m going to do regardless of whether or not the award ever comes. The fellowship is a self-directed dare to try something. I believe that fellowships come in many forms. A recent example is the house-sit my neighbor granted me while she was away for three weeks—her dining room table is almost the size of my bedroom.
Experiencing rejection and feelings of failure is one of the ways I learned to lead the work of Culture Forms. So I’ll keep sending the novel out. (I even started a new one, as a place to have fun and feel free.) I keep sending the proposal for the nonfiction book around. It’s an uncomfortable process; one I wouldn’t necessarily wish on anyone but can appreciate as a necessary part of life.