Commitment Issues

Learning to stay the course

I am in awe of writers who finish writing one novel and swiftly move on to the next. It seems that hardly a day passes between the end of one book and the start of something new. Then, they are fully engaged in the new project, moving full steam ahead.

Four years ago, I was taking a yearlong novel class with Lynn Steger Strong. In the course of that year, she finished one book and started the next—I can remember her talking about researching birds for the new book. And now, both Want and Flight are in the world, with a bird gracing the cover of Flight. I suspect that her next book is done, and that she is well into the one after that.

This is not the case with me. I can’t ever decide what to work on. It took me years and years to write Beyond That, the Sea in part because I couldn’t commit to it. I would work on it for a bit, then decide it was a horrible idea and move on to a short story or (more typically) to writing nothing at all.

As most of you know, I did finally complete the book—more on that later. I know I need to be working on the next project but for months now I have been (sort of) working on three different projects. I work a little on one, then decide it’s not right and move over to another. That sticks for a bit, until it doesn’t, then it’s on to the next. It’s frustrating because nothing gets done but it’s also frustrating because for me, the good part of writing is the sinking in. It’s spending enough quality time with characters that they become real. I can’t make that happen when I’m moving from one project to the next. And then this fall, I fell into a new rabbit hole and started reading a whole pile of books for project #4.

This inability to commit is strange, I think, because it’s at odds with who I am. I have been married for over forty years. I keep things (cars, clothes, kitchen appliances) until they fall apart. When I take a class, I do all the reading and the assignments. I try to be a good and reliable friend.

But there is one other place in my life where I have commitment issues. I like doing needlework—knitting, needlepoint, embroidery—and here, too, I have trouble committing. I start a project and it’s exciting at first: working with a new yarn, following an intricate pattern, seeing how the knitted fabric begins to resemble a sleeve or a sock or a scarf. And then something happens. Often I get bored. Sometimes I run into a problem, and I can’t figure out how to solve it. I might run out of yarn. Or I realize I made a mistake rows back and I need to decide: do I have to rip everything out or do I somehow make do? Occasionally, the pattern is too complicated; more often, the pattern is too basic. And then there are those times when I simply don’t like working with a particular yarn or pattern, or I decide that the yarn and the pattern don’t work well together.

But the reason I most often stop working on a project? Because I start working on something else. Something bright and shiny catches my attention. Something that’s brand new. Something where there’s still so much possibility wrapped up in the unknown. Before things get messy and tangled and confused.

The crossover with writing, I think, is clear. Getting bored. Running into problems that are difficult to solve. Finding a balance between something that is too complicated and something that is not complicated enough. Deciding that the form and the content don’t mesh. And the appeal of the new, the unburdened, the untouched. When it is all still waiting to be explored.

The only reason that I finished Beyond That, the Sea was because I took the class with Lynn. I had a structure, I had readers waiting for pages, I had a brilliant teacher and workshop mates providing feedback. I had paid for the class, and, as I said earlier, I am a good student: I always do the homework. Did I have doubts as I went along? Absolutely. But I had made a commitment to the class and therefore to the book. It was amazing, once that was all in place, how quickly it became a thing: in less than six months, I had a complete first draft.

Now I need to do this again. With some help from my workshop, I picked one of the three projects and decided I needed to focus on that. (I’m not sure it really mattered which one I chose—I simply had to pick one and stick to it.) I wrote a brief outline. I have four chapters written, and I’m working on the fifth. I’m checking in daily with a writer friend. Will I think about the other projects and wonder if I should be spending time with them instead? Of course. Will I think this idea is no good and my writing is horrible and every problem is unsolvable? Definitely. But for now, this feels like the right way to move ahead. To force myself to stay the course.

Every Sunday night, I write up a to-do list for the week. My writing rarely makes it onto the list—there are essays to write and books to read and applications to fill out and, and, and. If it’s there at all, it’s scribbled at the bottom of the page and never crossed out. This week, I put it first.

I also started knitting a new pair of socks.

See you in two weeks!