The “Miracle” of Time: Nurturing Fresh Perspectives in Writing

Healing with Time

It is said that time heals all wounds. I wonder, though, if maybe time gets too much credit. Is it really time that does the healing?

And what about the wounds that don’t heal with time?

The point of the adage, of course, is that things change over time. Our feelings. Our relationships. Our perspectives. Our lives. We always hope this change will be positive, but change can be negative or neutral, too. The underlying hope, though, is that we might find something positive within the change, regardless of whether the change is inherently negative (or neutral).

In regards to writing, it is the change of perspective over time that I’d like to focus on.

A Story of a Story

Recently, I’ve been reworking a story that I wrote a few years ago. This story has been run through the mill (so to speak). The early drafts were workshopped with two separate writing groups, and then, just over two years ago, I submitted it to my thesis advisor when I was preparing my MFA thesis. My advisor had many positive things to say about the story, but there was one particular element (a particular character and scene in the story) that he wanted me to focus on in revision.

When I received his very thorough critique letter, I was both encouraged and discouraged. It’s always dispiriting to take a draft you feel confident about and revise it. I was hesitant. But, enthusiastic student that I was, I dug right into the revision, addressing his feedback. Or so I thought.

It was only recently–when I pulled the story out again to work on it–that I realized I hadn’t actually addressed my advisor’s feedback. Instead, in my fervor to “perfect” the story, I made a number of additions to it, reluctant to delete anything I already had on the page. I resubmitted it to my advisor and waited expectantly.

His response was not what I was either expecting or hoping for.

What If They Judge Me?

Most of us are heavily invested in what we write. We become emotionally attached to the words and thoughts that emerge. We tend to take any sort of perceived negative response personally (even when it’s mixed with a positive response). Part of this is because we’ve generally spent a lot of time working on the piece of writing. We’ve put care and thought into it. We don’t want someone to tell us that we now need to revise it, change it, debauch it.

It’s not just the amount of work we’ve put in to a piece of writing, though. We often pour our hearts and souls into what we write. That is to say, when we write, we bare a part of ourselves. It’s not so unlike standing in one’s underwear in the front of a classroom (or so I imagine).

For example, when I write a blog post, I am offering my informed opinion about a particular subject. My opinions are based on research and what I’ve read/studied, but they’re also based on my own experiences (which may very well differ from someone else’s experiences). It can be scary to put these thoughts out in the open where anyone can read them. What if someone disagrees or counters the ideas?

An academic writer might feel similar trepidation. The thought process might go something like this: I’ve done this research. I’ve come to these conclusions. What if I’m not saying anything new? What if I haven’t researched enough?

My fiction writing showcases a part of myself that I may not share with many people. Some of my fiction is weird, but do I necessarily want people to perceive it as weird? If so, will they then perceive me as weird?

What if people don’t like it? What if people judge me?

Writers Are Human (Really, They Are!)

Sharing writing with others can be a frightening experience, regardless of who or how many people it’s being shared with. As writers, we become accustomed to rejection, but that doesn’t mean we don’t still feel the negative emotions that go along with it. Most of us who have been writing a long time have built up a thick skin, but that doesn’t ensure that a negative response (or perceived negative response) will just roll off our shoulders or that we’ll automatically know what to do with the feedback. We may be writers, but we’re also human. Emotion can cloud our judgment. In life and in writing.

When my advisor came back with a less-than-enthusiastic response to my story revision, I was disheartened. He reiterated what he had said in his first critique. That was the disheartening part: I thought I had addressed his feedback. Instead, though, I had rushed to a judgment (of myself, of the story, of his critique), afraid that he was asking me to alter parts of the story I felt were important. But he wasn’t asking me to change the story; he was only asking me to develop it. I get it now.

The Space of Two Years

A few weeks ago, I pulled out the story again–the different revisions of it–and reread my advisor’s initial feedback. Having that space of two years–the time away from the story and my emotional connectivity to it–allowed me to really understand what he had been saying all along.

I’m now in the process of revising the story again. I went back to the original draft (the first one I had submitted to my advisor) and have set to work applying his feedback. It’s been much easier to do after so much time has passed. Now I can say with much more confidence that he was correct in his initial critique. It makes sense…now. I couldn’t see it, though, two years ago. I was too close to the story to see it. I was too emotionally invested in it.

I have a lot of stories and poems that have similar tales of revision. With time, I learn to see what’s there and what’s not there. It works both ways, too. Sometimes I put away a story or poem because I don’t like where it’s going and am frustrated with it. Perhaps I don’t even share it with anyone. A few months (or years) later, though, and I can see something fresh in it. I can find something to work with it.

Fresh Perspectives

Of course, not all writers have the luxury of time. Many write on a deadline. But even allowing yourself a break of a few days or a week can help. Work on something else. Do something else. Come back to the writing later. Because I have dozens of stories started and ready to be revised at any one time, I use this to my advantage when I can. If a story is not working for me or if I’m bored or frustrated with it, I set it aside and pull out something else.

Time offers us fresh perspectives. It gives us an often-needed respite, allowing us to approach a project with renewed enthusiasm and hope. Time allows us to surprise ourselves, and I think this element of “surprise” is key. Sometimes if we’ve worked on one blog post/one chapter/one story too long, we feel spent. But coming back after a few days, a week, a month, or years, we find something new. Fresh. Our life experiences have changed; thus, we have more to offer the story, and it has more to offer us.

Killing the “Darlings”

Another aspect of this new perspective that comes with time is excising parts (or even the whole) of something that isn’t working.

You’ve probably heard the old adage about needing to “kill your darlings.” When we’re too attached to a piece, we often don’t want to remove what is unnecessary or is otherwise not working. I’ve often heard writers in a workshop dig their heels in: “No, I’m not getting rid of that.” or “That can’t be changed.” I’ve done it myself as a writer.

Whether to remove something or not (a detail, a sentence, or whole scene) is, of course, the author’s prerogative, but coming back to a story later can be especially helpful in cases such as this. And killing one’s darlings doesn’t have to mean deleting them forever. Perhaps the darlings belong in a different story or essay instead.

In this same way, sometimes a story (or essay or poem or other work) isn’t worth reviving. Sometimes we grow past a piece of writing. Even if we’ve spent a considerable amount of time on a project, we sometimes have to recognize when it’s not worth continuing. This is not a weakness. This is growth. It’s a strength. A fresh perspective.

Patience vs. Instant Gratification

Anyone who knows me personally probably knows that I’m not a particularly patient person. Instant gratification? Yes, please! I struggled as a young college student because I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. I didn’t want to take boring general education classes; I wanted to only take classes in my major. I wanted the degree without putting in the time. And as a writer? It’s not so different.What do you mean I have to wait three months to find out if my story was rejected or accepted? The struggle is real.

Being Present

In the last couple of years, I have learned patience. I’ve learned the art of waiting. The key for me is being present, which includes having enough projects and activities going so that I’m not thinking thoughts such as “When this happens…” or “I can’t wait for…” Instead, I’m excited for what each new day brings; I’m excited for each project I’m working on.

Similarly, as a young college student, I eventually embraced education itself and became someone who thrived as a learner (as my multiple degrees might indicate!). I learned to enjoy being challenged; I embraced the art of questioning. I became curious and engaged that curiosity.

It takes practice, of course, to be present, and certainly I still get impatient at times; but the reality is that time moves quite fast–often too fast–so if we’re living in the moment, we are better suited to appreciate each short moment of “now.”

Along with practice, patience is probably the most important requirement for improving as a writer (or improving in anything actually). Improvement in writing is often slow, imperceptible. But if we’re paying attention, it’s there.

It’s actually quite liberating to pull up stories from a year or two ago–or longer–and see more clearly what I need to do to make a particular story better. But improvement requires time, patience, and, of course, work. The work of writing involves reading (lots of reading!), studying (i.e., analyzing what you’re reading, studying the craft), and, naturally, writing and applying what you’ve learned about the craft of writing.

Time is a key element in all of this. Perhaps that’s why time appears to be so “miraculous.”

We Learn with Time

I don’t know that time heals all wounds, but it’s a catchy saying. What I do know is that we have to learn to live with the wounds we have that don’t/won’t heal. I recently lost my mom to ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease), and what I’ve learned is that the path of grief is surreal, making time feel almost inconsequential or unreal. Loss is not a wound that heals with time.

But we learn with time.

We learn to live with our sadness or grief. We learn to live with new realities. We learn to look at the world with new eyes–a new perspective.

So, if you’re working on a piece of writing that has you stuck or frustrated, put it aside if you’re able to. Work on something else. Start a new project. Indulge in a different form of creativity (e.g., painting). Delve into new books to read and study. Learn about new authors (or old authors that you’re just now discovering). Become present.

Then, after some passage of time (however long), go back to that troubling piece of writing and see what new perspectives it has to offer you. Or what new perspectives you have to offer it.