Hubris

Oftentimes when I’m wounded…or pissed off, I will turn to my writing.  Sometimes I write to purge the negative energy directed towards me by writing about that negative energy or entity.  This is therapeutic.  And better than abusing drink or substances or giving into anger, depression, or all the other things that humans give themselves into.  But the more writerly disciplined part of me will more often engage that energy towards a current writing project.  Especially perhaps, one I’ve been wrestling with.  And while I wouldn’t suggest that my best writing comes from such sessions, I do try to channel both my hurt and my aggression towards a positive infusion of vigor at the aim of creating my art. 

 

So after a recent wounding, herewith my blog: 

 

There’s a story I’ve been toiling at for over a decade now, a novel spawned from where I was at the time, shortly before the collapse of everything I thought I knew.  In a way, the first draft foreshadowed where I envisioned my life headed, and in the years subsequent, what my mind presaged, has in many ways come to pass.  The story involves a hermit surfer, a loner, incapable of abiding life according to the conventions of our modern society.  As a result, this character ends up alone, stubborn hubris putting him into a hole in the ground abode, on a small mountain near the coast.  Existing on poached sea life, whatever flora and fauna he can scrounge from the surrounding woods, and the little income he can salvage from redeemable bottles and cans, he tries to convince himself that only his surfing matters.  The biggest challenge of this project is getting non-surfer readers to understand what surfers already know, that surfing is far more than a casual pastime.  It seizes hold of you, and like the Mafia, there is no getting out once you’re in.  Every true surfer eventually has to grapple towards either reconciliation or compromise between their passion for surfing, and their devotion to loved ones.  And my protagonist, sadly discovers the truth that nobody gets through this life without impacting  the lives of others, and in the wake of his abdication from society, he must battle the guilt of having wrenched apart the lives of the two souls who love(d) him, his wife, and daughter. 

 

Unfortunately, my own life has paralleled this plot-line as I too have left behind the ruin of a family in my own personal wake.  You might think, how prescient of me to have seen this coming.  Then again, maybe I directed my course to make it happen.  Regardless, like my character, I am powerless to change my internal being; I am proud, I am independent, and I am stubborn.  But of course, like my character, I also feel guilt and pain.  There are things I regret, things I wish I’d done differently, but then again, there are other things I do not regret at all; in the end, all of us can only be true to ourselves and again in align with my protagonist, I am playing the cards dealt to me the best I can. 

 

So this novel, though not an autobiographical accounting of my life, contains elements of my soul that are inescapable, and thus, as much a part of me as any progeny.  A year ago, after more than a year of toil rewriting a manuscript that one prospective agent had earlier critiqued as: “…overwritten,” I pronounced it finished and began re-submitting to other agents.  I actually felt grateful for that agent’s criticism; I’d set out to create a work that not only had something to say, but one that was said in an artful manner.  After re-reading that draft though, I acquiesced to the realization that my own hubris had not only “bitten off more than I could chew,” but had also rendered a manuscript riddled with pretension, and in too many places, unreadable prose.  In the rewrite, I set out to make a more reader friendly manuscript; “just tell the damn story,” became my mantra. 

 

But I’m a slow learner.  I often repeat my mistakes until they’ve settled fully into my core.  Every writer knows, is taught, that the beginning of a story is when you must hook the reader if you hope to retain their eyes on your words and their heart on your intent.  The first chapter, the first paragraph, the first line must be as polished and ready to go as can be.  Editors and agents often advise that this is where most prospective authors fail, sending an unfinished  manuscript out for review.  I knew this.  But hubris did me in, once again.  I fell so in love with my main character, so in love with his point of view, that I knew, I just knew my story must begin with him.  In fact, the first chapter, the first scene, was the inception of my idea for this novel, oh those so many years ago.  I had the vision in my skull that was immutable; I wanted the reader to see and understand if not the entirety of this character, at least where he was and who he’d become.  All that followed was to include how he’d arrived at his position in life, and then gradually weave in the hope of his redemption, which after all was the general theme of the story.  Though I set out to tell the story from multiple points of view, through the eyes of all my major characters, I was adamant that it had to start with him. 

 

Despite rejection after rejection, I held fast to this.  It had all begun with this scene, this vision.  I refused to entertain the notion of “fixing” this first chapter.  Though in the back of my mind, there was the inkling of doubt, that because it employed a fair bit of surfer jargon, which might be difficult for a non-surfing reader to follow (or want to follow) my  stubbornness refused to budge.  Screw the reader.  They just have to stick with it and discover the brilliance that comes later, was my mindset.  Hubris. 

 

Another aspect of all this was the other niggling of doubt in the back of my mind, that of the three main characters, my protagonist, and his abandoned daughter (the reconciliation of their broken relationship being the main plot-line), the mother, his abandoned wife, was given short-shrift.  Her character’s point of view is not even explored until halfway through the novel.  And in fact, she’d even become in some ways, almost the antagonist to the story, as she hunts down both her ex-husband and daughter, the looming force that breathes urgency upon the mend of the father and daughter relationship.  In short, she was not a very sympathetic figure.

 

But a short time ago, after (once again) reading an article on the crucial importance of the first chapter, I finally conceded to those two doubts and began re-examining my manuscript.  I came to this conclusion: I. Am. A. Dope!  My stubbornness, my hubris, has stunted my efforts at producing a complete manuscript, yet again.  How stupid could I be?  Of COURSE the mother had to be more of a voice, a sympathetic entity in this triumvirate.  My god, what had she done to deserve status as the “black hat” in my story.  It was the husband who’d abandoned her, and now she was only trying to protect her daughter like any mother would.  She was an equal victim in this tragedy of circumstance between three people of a broken family.  And she needed her side more fully told.

 

The lightbulb switched on and it all fell into place from there.  Not only have I finally realized the importance of the mother’s point of view, but through the process of weaving her voice more fully into the story-line, I discovered that she is where my story must begin.  I conceived a new first scene with her alone, staring at the stars in the Southern Hemisphere, alongside a river in New Zealand, so away from the daughter she’d cared for since he’d abandoned them both.  And I’ve rough drafted a new, more “user friendly” first chapter.  Though he remains my protagonist, and the story still primarily concerns his redemption, my hope is that I can now create a more full and rounded story that contains the growth of all three of these characters as they move towards healing the wounds of their broken family. 

 

So what is the point of all this in my blog?  Maybe only that life contains a never-ending succession of lessons to be learned.  Some we learn at first notion, others must beat us over the head repeatedly until they embed into our psyche.  Like the concept of reincarnation, living multiple lives until all the lessons stick, maybe I simply needed to learn to trust my writerly intuition, to listen to those niggling doubts, and to not let my pride and hubris inhibit the realization of creating a complete and whole work.  If I still hear those little voices, then my project isn’t finished. It ain’t ready for general consumption.  And though these lessons are often humbling, like my character, I hold on to that hope that every rejection, every writing lesson I learn, or relearn, gets me that much closer to success, to publication.  And through it all, I keep paddling…