Umami

The Washington Post has a Book World this week (!!!)--but, of course, the section doesn't have reviews in it. Instead, it's all lists of the "best" books of the year, and an essay by Ann Patchett about how she never works.

Well, not *never.* But apparently not much. She's shocked by her output, based on how little time she spends writing.

Anyway, she did say something interesting: that writing is an endurance game. "The process of writing books is somewhat akin to a very long police interrogation in which the detective leans over the table littered with the butt ends of cigarettes and cold coffee in Styrofoam cups and says for the 87th time, 'Now let's go over this again.' It is a study in repetition, the ability to read the same page, paragraph, sentence until it could be recited backward and in French in hopes of figuring out which detail is missing, which idea is false."

I've been frustrated for a long while--about a year--because it feels like I pour time and effort into projects, but ultimately create little of worth. What about the law of Conservation of Energy?! Where does all that work *go*?! I'm bewildered by my input v. output ratio.

I'm aghast when I read my (even slightly) older stuff, because my current piece seems so much better. My writing from a year or two ago seems juvenile and angst-ridden. My writing from a year ago seems dry. My writing from six months ago seems jejune. And I just looked at the personal statement I sent to law schools in Fall of 2007 and it was humiliatingly bad. How did I get in?! What has happened between that crap and this story? Not *that* much could have changed in six months, could it?

Is this just a lack of perspective? Or is this what always happens when one puts in 1,000 hours on the same 40-50 pages? Is this story just uniquely good? Maybe (I hope/wish/pray) I've finally crossed some sort of professional line?

Maybe it's just the cumulative writing time I've now put in...I usually put in 2-10 hours of writing a day, and have for a year and a half. And outside of writing, the circumstances of my life have changed significantly; there's a big difference between just-turned-22 and going-on-24. Maybe it's my growing writing experience, paired with my growing life experience resulting in more mature (better) writing?

Not to boast: I mean, improving is great, but success is better.

So: I've still got another draft to go on this story--but it's a clean-up and cut-down type thing. My beta-reader is looking over it again, I'll sort through what he has to say and apply what I agree with, then print this baby up and look for typos.

Yes, I'm IMMENSELY proud of this story. It truly is the best I could possibly do, and as I said before--it feels like it grew from an inspired seed, it still feels touched by the muse. I'm a materialist normally, and that "inspiration/"artiste" language grates--but something feels *right* to me about this piece.

There's no telling whether it'll open the doors I want, but I'm proud of this story--and of myself--regardless.