Saturday, July 21, 2012

On the Latest News of Our Mortality

My first reaction to learning that twelve people had been murdered while watching a Batman movie at a theatre in Aurora, Colorado, was not to write a blog. I felt at a loss. The subject I actually wrote on and was going to post for today, which turned out to be the day after the tragedy, was on the dubious nature of general writing advice. But this just seemed inappropriate. And taking this as an opportunity to expound on the social problems that led to this most recent tragedy seemed downright cold. So instead of all this, I offer this, a few words for those who have lost someone in the violence. 

Like most, my reaction to the violence (overseas, the main equivalent would be terrorist attacks) is always shock and then sadness. I have lost family members and friends to car accidents and random violence, and I think about what the living relatives of those lost must be going through.

So I write this for them.

The endless TV punditry is going to again render unreal what has happened. I will stop watching it. I recommend that we all turn it off. What happened is very real. It matters and should not be lessened by vain repetition.

For those who have lost someone yesterday, may they some day know beauty for ashes.

It doesn’t come over-night.

May we all pay a little closer attention to the people we know, to the people around us.

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Sunday, July 15, 2012

Revision/Repentance: Sorting Through a Contrast

This past week involved a struggle with a writing project. I’m working on a novel, and after getting some great feedback on it last week (see last blog), I found myself going back to the drawing board on a few things. Writing is like that, though. I’m used to it. Some people might look at this as similar to “repentance” (I say this because it is common to look at having to do something over again as a form of punishment). But I try to avoid attributing moral or spiritual guilt where none exists (more about this later in the blog). And I don’t rewrite to cover errors or mistakes, as though I’m working on a math problem; I rewrite because I’m learning more about the material I’m working on. Revision, or re-seeing, concerns getting closer to the vision I had for writing in the first place. Nancy Sommers, a Composition specialist, calls this part of the writing process, when we return to earlier stages of the process, “recursive.” That is, it involves returning to earlier stages of a writing process as a part of moving forward toward a better draft.

Most of my work this week could be called recursive. I literally went back to the drawing board, to stage one: I added a new chapter, which I then spent most of the week writing and giving shape to. But in writing this chapter, I also learned more about other parts of the book I’ve already written, and I also found myself adding new scenes to other chapters already written. Many people might look at that as failure, or as too much work. But my understanding of the world of my novel is deepening; my rewriting, rethinking, re-inventing, I hope, will reflect this. The whole week seemed worth the effort.

We tend to look at many aspects of life, especially those concerned with learning and growing, as consisting of stages of development. Once we pass through an early stage, we are done with it. This model might work for childhood development, though I’ve also heard of it being criticized. As for writing, the stage model has long been criticized, and yet it is also deeply entrenched in teaching writing in the lower grades.

The stages model suggests that five stages are needed to write an essay: Pre-writing, drafting, revising, editing, and publishing. The assumption with this model is that when we finish “pre-writing” for an essay and move to “drafting,” we are finished with “pre-writing.” And once we finish “drafting,” we move on to “revision” and don’t need to “draft” again. This is to teach these five stages as “non-recursive.”  

This is simply too neat to be true or accurate. All of the writers I know don’t write in stages. They don't see returning to the drawing board as a form of “repentance.” They do return to planning again, they do re-draft whole segments of their work, not because they are terrible writers, but because they are good ones, and in writing the first draft, they realized what their piece was really about.

This seems to be true of most things. When we are involved in a new endeavor, we have only a sketchy understanding of what it is to look like and how we will pull it off. So we plow through until we realize we’re off track. We return to the beginning with a better understanding of what to do.

This is the part of revision that I suppose cuts across into religious thought. Although revision should not carry the moral repugnance of repentance, repentance does resemble the recursive element of revision. Repentance is a turning away from what we’ve done and a turning back to what is perceived as the right path. I suppose for most of us, repentance carries all of the childhood memories of shame, disgrace, and, yes, moral repugnance. But there is also this promise of a better understanding than we had before--yes, it does resemble a new revision.

Aside from the harsh, haunting childhood images, repentance could also be seen as a lot more like revision, as a new opportunity to do things better, the way they should have been done the first time. Certainly, if I’ve done real harm to someone, it's probably a sign of health that I feel remorse.  

For those of us who follow a developmental, stages model for faith (I usually do at an unconscious level) and assume we're really moving far along and getting deeper and better, we may want to question our model. Christianity without repentance is like writing without revision.

If you’ve looked at as many essays as I have that were written by student writers who don’t revise because they believe revision is only for bad writers, then you’ll understand that it is not a pretty picture.

Most of the time, spiritual progress does resemble writing. And sometimes, as C.S. Lewis once noted, to go forward I first have to go back.

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