Tag Archives: motivation

Revision, Then and Now

Photo by Yolanda Leyva on Unsplash

I have always revised.  Of course.  Every writer does.

But revision has come to be a very different thing than it was when I began publishing in 1976.  Then I worked at a typewriter.  At first it was the 1956 manual portable (beige with white keys) Smith Corona typewriter that had been my high school graduation gift.

Eventually I moved on from that to an electric typewriter (it made pondering moments a bit tense by sitting there humming at me) and then to an electronic one.  One of those machines, an IBM Selectric, was self-correcting, meaning if you caught an error while the page was still in front of you, you could flip a switch and type backwards, whiting out the words you wanted gone.  I learned to type as rapidly backwards as forwards.

But always when I worked on a typewriter I had a routine for revising.  I triple-spaced my original draft, leaving room while the page was still in the typewriter to go back right then to type in changes.  Once the page was out of the typewriter, I could write in my changes by hand.

When a page became too cluttered with revisions, I would retype it, switching to a different color of paper.  I changed the colors with each draft, which allowed me at a glance to know how long a particular page had been part of the manuscript.  (What use that knowledge was I’m no longer sure, but the practice gave me a pleasantly colorful manuscript during these early stages.)

Looking back at that cumbersome process—typing, correcting, retyping—and thinking what it is like today to write from first draft through every level of revision on a computer screen, I have to smile.  The smile is one of delight.  I love today’s technology!

I love the way it takes so much of the physical labor out of the process of writing.

I love the way it allows me to finesse every detail of a manuscript every time I look at it.

I love the way I can save multiple drafts, so I can experiment with a piece and still, should I need to, return to its earlier form.

I love the way Word challenges my spelling, even leaps in to correct common mistakes before my fingers notice they have stumbled.

And I love the way I can save reams and reams of manuscripts, from the failed to the already published, inside one small box.

Remembering those typewriters, I wonder, in fact, whether I ever truly revised before.  Certainly the process now is more organic, more fluid, more deeply intuitive.

I have never reread my early books to try to weigh them against the work I do now. Even if I did, there would be, of course, no way of knowing whether the changes I might see were based on the freedom offered by today’s technology or whether they would simply represent a writer’s natural growth in mastery.

But every single time I sit down to write today, I rejoice.  I rejoice at the way I can slip in and out of a manuscript, shaping, smoothing, enriching, culling.  I rejoice in the power under my fingertips that makes revision downright fun!

I remember those old manuscripts, the piles of brightly colored pages.  I remember the final process of retyping the whole blasted thing—with carbon paper so I would still have a copy when I entrusted the original to the post office—and I am so, so glad to live in the 21st Century.

Yes, I know.  The 21st Century has its problems.  Enormous ones.  And we aren’t doing much to resolve them.

But oh . . . the technology that makes it possible to create on a computer—and revise, revise, revise—isn’t one of them!

Going out…

Photo by Filip Kominik on Unsplash

“. . . going out, I found, was really going in.”

John Muir

Our Bluegreeen Globe

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

If from Space not only sapphire continents,

swirling oceans, were visible, but the wars –

like bonfires, wildfires, forest conflagrations,

flame and smoky smoulder – the Earth would seem

a bitter pomander ball bristling with poison cloves.

And each war fuelled with weapons: it should be visible

that great sums of money have been exchanged,

great profits made, workers gainfully employed

to construct destruction, national economies distorted

so that these fires, these wars, may burn

and consume the joy of this one planet

which, seen from outside its transparent tender shell,

is so serene, so fortunate, with its water, air

and myriad forms of “life that wants to live.”

It should be visible that this bluegreen globe

suffers a canker which is devouring it.

 

Denise Levertov

Duck and Cover

In 1951 the US Federal Civil Defense Administration in consultation with the Safety Commission of the National Education Association produced a film called Duck and Cover.  The film featured an animated turtle named Bert, who, with a catchy lyric playing in the background, taught American children to duck and cover if/when an atomic bomb detonated nearby.  I was in seventh grade in 1951, but the film never came to my school.  Nor did the duck-and-cover exercises, for which I cannot help but be grateful.

(If you’re interested in seeing the film, go to Duck and Cover)

I can’t imagine what it would have meant to me as a child to practice dropping under my desk and covering the back of my neck to keep safe from a horrendous and almost inevitable bomb.  Maybe something similar to what it must mean to our school children today to go through drills to prepare against shooters.

I did participate more fully in the moment in 1961.  I was a young teacher standing in front of my high school English class when the principal came on the PA system to give instructions for evacuating the school and our city should a nuclear missile come our way.  The terror of the Cuban missile crisis and the years surrounding it is imprinted on my bones.  (As a young woman I used occasionally to read newspaper obituaries in towns where I didn’t know a soul just to note how many people had lived out full lives, a privilege I was convinced would never be mine.)

My entire adult life has been played out in an improbable bubble, a bubble free of world-wide nuclear devastation.  That we all came through the Cuban missile crisis whole is almost beyond improbable.  We know now that the nuclear warheads we were holding off with our threats were already in place.  We know, too, that we were attempting to bomb Russian submarines.  Just think if we had connected with even one target!

And if the potential for devastation has been less obvious in the years that have followed it has been no less real.

The grace of that nuclear-free bubble has nothing to do with peace.  In the eight decades of my life, my country has been in a nearly constant state of war.  The fact that we haven’t all been blow away can be attributed only to luck and happenchance.

Recently, I have been reading Daniel Ellsberg’s The Doomsday Machine, Confessions of a Nuclear War Planner.  Why?  I’m not entirely certain except, perhaps, to give credence to my lifelong nightmares.  Ellsberg does that very effectively.  To understand the myriad ways our planet might have been destroyed—may yet be destroyed—by accident or intent boggles the mind.  In fact, after a time, the boggled mind simply quits reacting.

At least mine did.

But what is the point of choosing to know?  It is clearly impossible in our system to vote a leader into office who would have the will and the power to stand against this obscenity.

None has for the last half century.  Not one!

Yet, these are our lives being played out . . . played with . . . lived.  The jeopardy is ours and our children’s and our grandchildren’s.

Ah . . . those grandchildren!  Sometimes I imagine sitting down with my grandchildren and trying to explain my failure to leave them a safe and habitable world.

Trying to explain why I have so few answers to offer, only more questions.  Lots and lots of questions.

What is it with the human race?  Do we still stand at the mouth of our caves, our hands filled with stones to repel the next intruder?  Certainly the stones have evolved.  Why haven’t we?

Each morning I emerge into the world filled with such questions.  And then what do I do?  I sit down and write another children’s book.  Whatever it is, it will at least be more honest, more useful than Duck and Cover. 

I often wonder what it must have been like to live in pre-World War II Germany.  Something like living in the United States today, perhaps?

“Things are awful.  I know they are awful.  But right now I have supper to fix.”

Supper is good, though . . . as is the choice to go on with our lives.

Maybe I could say that to those beloved grandchildren.

“Supper is good.  Every breath that fills your lungs and returns once more to the world is holy.  Now . . . go out and fight for those impossible-to-imagine leaders, the ones who understand just how precious you are.  How precious our world is!”

Dear Children

Photo by Stephen Leonardi | Unsplash

All around you, people will be tiptoeing through life, just to arrive at death safely. But dear children, do not tiptoe. Run, hop, skip, or dance, just don’t tiptoe.

Shane Claiborne