I spent about six months of 2015 writing a creative non-fiction book about my experience of commuting. Amusing anecdotes from my time on the bus were sprinkled in among accounts of my youth, which, in retrospect, involved commuting too.
Like most of my writing much of it was “getting the job done” writing—telling the story. Not every sentence can sparkle. Amid the prose, which I hope was lively, were some very clever bits, if I have to say so myself. And likely I will. I gave the manuscript to a friend to read.
By her guarded response I could tell the book really didn’t work. I’d spent my precious writing time for half a year pouring, polishing, and preening. All for naught. If even your friends don’t like it, there’s no point in sending it out to be eviscerated by strangers.
Depression sank in. I’d already imagined finding an agent for it. Accolades coming in on my wit. What I had only rhymed with wit.
Then I thought again. There were some clever bits in there. Just because they happened didn’t mean they couldn’t be fiction! Yes, my latest novel in progress could use a little help, and these bits and pieces could find a home after all.
Recycling is perhaps best exemplified in writing. I used to think it was cheating to reuse your own material. Then I learned writers do it all the time. You know when its a gem under that loupe; you shouldn’t keep it in its velvet case where no one will ever see it.
I bought one of those Bruce Springsteen commemorative albums where he includes the original poems for some of his songs. I couldn’t believe it when I saw some of his best lines in early songs he never recorded. Yes, even the Boss is a recycler.
Now I can approach my failed non-fiction as a prospector. I’ll dig out the gold and leave the overburden behind. That’s what writers do.
Comments
Post a Comment