Miracles Take a Little Time
Even miracles take a little time. ~ The Fairy Godmother
In 2008 I attended a reunion of my mother’s family. While there I heard stories from my mother’s cousins about their grandmother, my great-grandmother, Beatrice Rains. Growing up I had often heard the stories of her legendary discipline and talents from my mother. Trained as a concert pianist, Beatrice gave up a career in music to marry and move to the south from upstate New York. Regardless, she continued to practice five hours a day while raising three children, two of which were twins, and taking care of a small farm and her banker husband. The story of this feat inspired me over the years, especially as I embarked on my own journey as an artist. I thought of her often, knowing how disciplined one must be to become good at your chosen craft, as the practicalities of life continue forth with little regard for our passions.
As I write this, my children are upstairs, pouting because I’ve delayed Christmas decorating so that I might finish edits and write this blog piece. My day has been long already. I spent the morning cleaning house, cooking breakfast, doing laundry, all the while itching to write – the usual struggle of managing the machinations of daily life with small children while trying to grow as a writer and make a living doing so. This is not a complaint. I love my children. I love my work. This is simply the life of any mother. That said, I think of Beatrice, managing it all in her days. It was harder, no doubt, than my situation: no microwave, no packaged bread, cooking full meals from scratch in the heat of an Alabama day.
Despite the stories I already knew about her, my mother’s cousins told me that she’d also dabbled in writing. This I did not know, but was thrilled to hear, of course. When I returned home, my mother’s cousin Arlene sent me copies of letters and essays written by Beatrice. I cannot say exactly the moment the idea came to me, but something in those words sparked an idea for a novel. I mulled it over in my mind for probably a year, while simultaneously working on Riversong. At some point, I can’t remember exactly, I began to write it. Emerson was three years old then. She’s eight now. Since then, “Duet for Three Hands” has been rewritten about ten times, had countless readers, countless feedback. I believed it to be my best work. I thought it was ready for publication. But the truth was, it wasn’t quite right. People I trusted agreed. It was not ready, still, no matter how hard I worked at it. So it went into the proverbial drawer. I did not touch it for almost two years, trusting finally that when it was time, I would know.
This is not like me. This letting go. This patience. I am a person of action. I decide what I want and then I do it. I do the work no matter how difficult, with discipline and commitment. I pursue the dream. I take great risks. When I hear, “you’re not good enough”, “you can’t do that”, I say, watch me. Many times in my creative life I’ve been the dark horse, the one no one believed in, until I sprinted over the finish line.
But this time, I let go. I gave it to God. I wrote five other books. I put my butt in seat every day. And something happened. I got better. Those 10,000 hours they speak of in the “Outliers”? That was me, hours and hours at this desk, honing a craft. Am I the best writer in the world? No. Am I as good as I will be ten years from now? Hopefully not. Am I better than five years ago? Yes.
Last summer, I felt a nudge, what I believe was the quiet voice of God, telling me it was time to take it out of the drawer. So I did. But what I found in that drawer surprised me. It was not my best work, as I’d believed. It was a great story but the writing was weak. It just was. This is why, I thought, the dreams I had for it did not happen. It wasn’t time then and now it is.
After notes from my editor, I rewrote it again. And that rewrite hurt, friends. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I wasn’t sure I could, actually. There were several teary phone calls to Katherine Sears, co-founder of Booktrope, to talk me off the writer’s ledge. Without her, the book might be back in the drawer.
I received the latest draft back from my editor a few days ago. With some minor notes and the usual edit type stuff at this point in the process, we agreed this is the version. I am almost done. This labor of love is almost done. I had to say that twice.
So, as I tend to do, I’ve been thinking about all this, trying to learn from the journey. I know this to be true – sometimes we have to let go. In our work, in our relationships, even our dreams we fight so hard for – sometimes we just have to unclasp our grip and let them flutter into the wind. We cannot force something before its time. We can’t make anyone love us if they don’t. We can’t bring a dream to fruition just by the force of our will. Instead we must accept that our longings, our dreams warp and twist and become new or changed or delayed. It is our job to do the work, to wish, to dream, of course. But perhaps it’s also our job to sometimes put something in the drawer and throw our love into other work, or other relationships, or the unexpected that came along when we were looking the other way. When the time is right, we will know. And, as they say, when we look back, we’ll see why that something we fought so hard for wasn’t meant to be. What came instead was so much better.
