Posts by Robin LaFevers
Some of us run into it right from the beginning, when we first begin to put words to paper. Others are luckier and don’t encounter it until later on their journey. But either way, if you’re a writer, at some time or another you are bound to run into Self Doubt.
Self doubt hits all of us differently. It can be an uncomfortable itch between our shoulders or a paralyzing force that prevents us from getting any words down on the page. Whatever form it takes it can be, if not conquered, at least managed.
There are three distinct branches of the self-doubt tree.
Competence is about craft and skill. Do I have the writing chops to pull this story off?
Permission is about judgment and authenticity. Who do I think I am trying to tell THIS story?
Worthiness is about self worth, agency, and voice. Who do I think I am trying to tell ANY story?
Competence
Of all the causes of self doubt, competence is the most easily fixed. It’s about rolling up our sleeves, digging in, and committing the time and energy necessary to get better.
But of course, if merely proving our competency were all that was involved, no published writer would ever have self doubts and I am here to assure you that is most definitely NOT the case. Many published writers find their doubts grow stronger the further they move into their career. Their initial doubts are compounded by a sense of expectations they must meet, or new milestones or metrics they must achieve. Which brings us to head games and hard truths, essential tools in any writers’ backpack.
We’ll start with the hard truths first.
Our story will never be as sparkling and fabulous on the page as the idea of it in our heads. In the act of trying to capture it, in choosing specific actions and details, it loses some of the glorious sense of infinite potential, which is always a part of a new idea’s magic.
Knowing and accepting that helps us adjust our expectations. We won’t be writing a perfect book, but we very well might be writing a terrific book, and that’s good enough.
Another hard truth: Your journey to publication will likely take longer than you think. The industry average is 10 years. Knowing and accepting that helps us give ourselves the time and permission to improve our writing skills. With patience and persistence, all of us can improve and draw closer to mastery.
Now for the promised head game regarding competence:
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Depending on the writer you talk to, writer’s block seems to be either:
(A) Something writers’ dread
(B) Something they run into without warning
(C) Something they don’t believe in–an easy excuse people use to avoid doing the hard work. A way of letting fear get to you.
It can be easy to discount something you’ve never experienced. However, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. A number of years ago, there was a well known child behavior expert who confessed to not understanding why so many people had so such difficulty in applying proven child rearing philosophies to their kids. He had a system that worked and genuinely thought people were making it far more complicated than it needed to be. Until the day he was blessed with A Difficult Child. Then all of his proven systems went flying out the window and he had to scramble to come up with new ones. He was forced to admit that those parents hadn’t been wrong after all. There really was such a thing as a difficult child. It’s not a bad idea to keep that story in mind when declaring there’s no such thing as writer’s block. It is quite possible that you simply haven’t run into it YET. Life’s journey is long and you may still find yourself on a road you blissfully thought didn’t exist.
It doesn’t help that the term writer’s block acts as a general catch all, covering a huge variety of very real, frustrating, energy-depleting and wildly different set of problems. So today, I thought we could unpack writer’s block and examine eleven reasons people find themselves stuck, then talk about ways to get unstuck.
1. Nothing you write works and you’re getting nowhere.
This isn’t being blocked, it’s being stymied. You’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere in the story and need to find your way back. In this case, step back and take a look at the big picture. Pull out your trusty plotting tools if you use them. Return to the last place where words were flowing. Look at the actions the characters take, the decisions they make. Were they forced? Cliche? What if they made a different decision? Experiment with a few different choices they could make and see if that opens up new possibilities.
2. Your characters aren’t cooperating and won’t DO anything.
In this situation, you’re often lacking the emotional fuel for the story. Go deeper into your character and do some journaling or writing prompts to discover their deepest feelings, motivations, and concerns. If you already know those, look for tangential ones—feelings and motivations that might even be hidden from the character. Another approach is to do a stream of consciousness journaling as to what they’re thinking/feeling immediately after the last scene you wrote. Or before the one you’re planning to write. You should find some breadcrumbs and ideas there.
3. You don’t know what happens next.
Usually the techniques in #1 or #2 will provide answers here, but if not, there are a couple of additional approaches. Do some worldbuilding to see if the environment will provide clues/plot ideas. Or research. Oftentimes plot solutions, surprising twists, unexpected angles can be found through research. Or consider doing some journaling from the antagonist’s POV. Map out the actions they’re […]
Whether we like it or not, recent world events have forced most of us to hit the pause button. For some, that pause comes at a relatively decent place where we can stop and see it as an opportunity (if we can set aside our anxiety long enough.) For others, the pause has us teetered on the brink of a freefall that we cannot even begin to see the end of or how we will land.
No matter where we are, all we can do at this point is wait. Wait and stay home and see if that will be enough to flatten the curve.
It’s the ultimate dichotomy, isn’t it? We’ve been given this great chunk of time where the best thing we can do is stay home and tend to ourselves (surely a writer’s dream!) and yet we are so filled with uncertainty and stress and anxiety that we can barely focus on anything but the news and the horror of it all as it unfolds.
Waiting is often a passive state where we feel out of control. But waiting does not have to be passive. It’s possible, even healthy, to take this waiting period that we have been given and use it to do something proactive, life affirming.
When the world is on fire around us, there can be nothing more helpful for our mental health than to lose ourselves in the flow of something, whether it be a hobby, a craft, a passion, or a calling. It might seem an awful lot like fiddling while Rome burns, but once you’ve ensured that your fire alarm battery is working and watered your roof, really, what else is there to do?
Start a garden. Adopt a house plant. Sewing, knitting, origami, drawing, painting, book art, collaging with found things in your home, yoga. YouTube videos abound on an incredibly vast array of new skills—some we’ve longed to try for ages. Now is the time to do that, to lose yourself in that kind of being. Allowing yourself to find a way to create in a chaotic world—to enter a flow state of being—is the biggest gift you can give yourself. It gives your ravenous brain something healthy to chew on rather than junk food.
I want to be clear that I’m not talking about advancing our careers or hitting word counts or being productive. For most of us, this experience is a little too traumatic for that. I am talking about finding a path to escape, just for a little while, the unremittingly heavy burden of the time we’re living in, by losing ourselves in the act of creation. No pressure or strings attached.
Since most of us here are writers, that seems the obvious thing. For many of us, our ability to lose ourselves in deep focused work and the flow of creativity will offer a welcome respite. But how you might ask. How are we to do that with all the news events swirling around us and all the ugly news piling up?
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photo courtesy Alice Popkorn
As the year draws to a close, it is inevitable that our minds turn toward the passing of seasons, the ebb and flow of life, and the inevitability of change. This is particularly true for me this year as I stand poised, once again, on life’s Ferris wheel. But here’s the funny thing about Fortune’s wheel—because so much of the ride is beyond our vantage point, we can never really know if the arc we’re on is poised for an upswing, or the stomach clenching dip of a down turn.
My first post here at Writer Unboxed was on how a writer’s life was full of second chances. It was written from a place where I could clearly see the direction fortune’s wheel was taking me. And while I know that down always follows up—it’s science, after all—I was a bit unprepared for the sheer variety of downs there were. The truth is, the Shadowlands of Success are heavily populated with all manner of obstacles: swamps, impossibly high mountain ranges, impenetrable mists, mazes, and terrifyingly deep caverns.
And now for my own confession. Dear reader, I lied. Back in February of 2015, just after I crested life’s Ferris wheel, I fell—long and hard and far—into the Shadowlands. It was not a professional fall, but a personal one. It was not ergonomics that forced my hiatus. Or rather, not simply ergonomics but my body finally screaming at me—enough!—and forcing an intervention.
Because the thing about the body is, it remembers. It remembers and stores all the things that we’d rather forget. That we work so hard to forget. The truth is, I have spent my entire life avoiding the shadowlands, which probably ensured my visit was a long and painful one.
But my body knew. And remembered.
All of our experiences—physical and emotional—are stored deep within our muscles, sinew, bones, and even cells. While our minds are very adept at denial and disassociation, our bodies keeps track of it all.
In an essay entitled Infinite Exchange, David Maisel offers this stunning and startling truth:
In a 2011 paper on the medical effects of scurvy, author Jason C. Anthony offers a remarkable detail about human bodies and the long-term presence of wounds. “Without vitamin C,” Anthony writes, “we cannot produce collagen, an essential component of bones, cartilage, tendons and other connective tissues. Collagen binds our wounds, but that binding is replaced continually throughout our lives. Thus in advanced scurvy”—reached when the body has gone too long without vitamin C—“old wounds long thought healed will magically, painfully reappear.”1
Given the right—or, as it were, exactly wrong—nutritional circumstances, even a person’s oldest injuries never really go away. In a sense, there is no such thing as healing. From paper cuts to surgical scars, our bodies are mere catalogs of wounds: imperfectly locked doors quietly waiting, sooner or later, to spring back open.
Read Moreimage by alice popkorn
There has been a lot of chatter in the Twitterverse lately about sales numbers, hitting the lists, debuts, sales expectations, and (the often inevitable) disappointment.
Writing a book is hard.
Getting that book published? Harder still.
Maintaining a career in publishing? Probably hardest of all.
There is no question that all of those require a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. And luck. Don’t forget the luck part, because that is a big component of anyone’s success.
Furthermore, as writers—whether unpublished, debuts, or seasoned veterans—there is very little about the industry that we can control. We can control the writing, and that’s about it. Everything else is out of our hands. That is a recipe for frustration and angst, so it is inevitable that heartache will find us at many points on our journey.
But I’m not going to talk about that today. Today I’m going to ask you to take a step back. No, even further back than that.
Why do we write? Why do humans write?
To tell stories.
It’s the purpose of all art, really, to tell a story, to capture a moment, a feeling, a transformation. But for writers our medium is words.
But stepping back yet again: What is the purpose of stories?
To connect.
With readers, with our own voice, with a shared truth, a voice that resonates.
With the human experience.
So whatever other reasons compel us to pick up that pen or keyboard, whatever lies or rationalizations we tell ourselves, at its most basic it is a desire to connect.
The thing is, we can never truly know what our own life’s purpose is. We can know what we think it is. Mark Twain says two of the most important moments in our life are when we’re born and when we understand why.
For many writers, we think we understand why when we discover writing.
But what if that’s not truly our purpose? What if it is the connections we make through pursuing writing that are actually our true purpose?
Connections with other writers.
Connections with our own truths.
Connections with readers, even if only a handful.
What if writing is simply the medium the universe uses to foster it’s own connections?
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While we can certainly be forgiven for not seeing our personal wounds as jewels, our most powerful wounds often have as many facets and hidden depths as an exquisitely cut gemstone. They are sharp, with hard edges that not only reflect back light but distort it somewhat.
As writers, we know that our character’s wounds are some of the most fertile ground for creating a rich, fully realized protagonist. But before we can explore this with our characters, we have to understand it ourselves. And because we have all been wounded in some way—and those places are always tender—it can be uncomfortable to look too closely.
In order to use our characters’ wounds to full effect, we need to understand that wounds aren’t simply an attribute to be filled in on a worksheet. They are the rocket fuel for our character’s backstory, the backstory that drives their motivation and colors their world. It must be deeply organic to that character and so intricately woven into their emotional DNA that it distorts the way the see the world and themselves.
While everyone’s wounds are uniquely theirs, they are also universal in that they’re something we all share. What differs is their nature, how we carry them, and the many—often unexpected—ways they shape us and our behavior.
Because of course the impact of any given wound isn’t limited to that initial injury. I was reminded of that last week when I was out walking and twisted my ankle. It was nothing serious, but by the time I’d limped around favoring it for a day or two, everything else was out of whack as I contorted my body to accommodate the injury.
Emotional wounds are just like that, only worse by orders of magnitude.
Even when we know our character’s painful past, we often don’t use it to full effect. We don’t manage to weave into the very essence of who our character is—because make no mistake, wounds fundamentally shape us, especially those incurred in childhood when we are so defenseless. With wounds of the heart or soul—the ones that violate some deep fundamental part—it is the repercussions of that initial wound that create the most scarring. The blame, the self-doubt, the suffocating shame, all serve as a way to cut us off from our core self.
Emotional neglect, a betrayal, a rejection, a lie, are all painful enough, but often become the lens through which we see ourselves. We accept that rejection. Believe that lie. Justify the betrayal due to something fundamentally flawed within us rather than the betrayer. Or worse, we don’t see it as a betrayal at all, but simple evidence of how flawed and unlovable we really are.
The emotionally abandoned child believes they are undeserving of love.
The abused believes they deserve the abuse, that love will always hurt and often comes coated in shame.
The child of addicts learns to fundamentally mistrust the safety and stability of the world around them.
The child raised in a religion that vilifies all human behavior will inevitably see themselves as sinful and unworthy.
Any kind of abuse—emotional, physical, sexual—is often the starting point for a long, twisted, distorted journey from our true selves. And our worldview takes shape around that bad information we’ve deduced […]
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Reading that title might have you scratching your head. What is tricky about perfection? What could possibly be wrong with it? Surely it’s a good thing to try our best and strive to improve. And indeed, conventional wisdom tells us that if we write the perfect book, have the perfect social media presence, and conduct the perfect marketing campaign—success will be ours!
But perfection isn’t that simple and there is a difference between striving for excellence as a way to do our best versus chasing the illusion that any human creative endeavor can be perfect. Striving for your best work is vastly different from holding yourself to impossibly perfect standards.
Perfection is the trickster god of virtues because it fools you into thinking it IS a virtue. That it’s an indicator of how much you care, how hard you work, how dedicated you are. But in reality, perfection is often not about any of those things. It is an unattainable, unreachable illusion and in pursuing it, we often kill or destroy some of the most human and joyous experiences available to us.
Perfection insists that we perform our lives rather than live them. That we allow external measures to shape and control our happiness rather than our own lived experiences, and therein lies its peril.
Some hints you might be a perfectionist are:
But wait! Even if you got through that list and didn’t see yourself, you’re not free yet because overachieving is a form of perfection. (Remember that Trickster God of Virtues, thing.) So you might also be a perfectionist if:
This kind of perfectionism is often rooted in a need to exceed expectations and be above reproach. It is one, I might add, that writers are especially vulnerable to because there is such a degree of luck in any writer’s success and we feel we must do everything in our power to earn and justify it.
So what’s a perfectionist to do??
Read MoreThere is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
Read MoreThis is not the way I planned to do this. My idea was to simply slink quietly away for a few months, then just as quietly return to my monthly posting. But the Blog Mama decided a different approach was in order, and so here I am, announcing that I will be taking a temporary leave of absence from Writer Unboxed. Talking about it like this feels a wee bit personal, like I am oversharing or burdening you with TMI. But perhaps, instead, it can be a cautionary tale that will help keep you from following down a similar path. Let’s call it that, shall we? Or else I’ll never be able to hit the post button…
The truth is, it has been an amazing three years since I first posted on WU. They have been richer and fuller and brought more exhilarating experiences than I could ever have imagined. But they have also been demanding and exhausting in ways I never anticipated. I have talked before about how, although I consider myself a prolific writer, the deadlines for the assassin trilogy have been hard for me. It has been one grueling deadline after another for the last three years. Coupled with the fact that I had been on deadline nearly continuously for the three years PRIOR to that as I juggled two middle grade series. And while all of that has been hard on my muse, it has been even harder on my physical self. The truth is, all that butt-in-chair has driven my body into the ground and I have a number of ergonomic issues that are demanding my attention. They go far beyond remembering to wear my wrist guards to bed and do a few sets of crunches each morning.
This is not something I’m proud of. It makes me feel weak and stupid—weak for my body not holding up under the demands I made of it, and stupid for not having foreseen this and headed it off.
I know there are many, many writers who struggle with ergonomic issues and other physical hardships daily and still manage to produce lots of words and great work. But apparently I am not one of those writers. And maybe, just maybe, that’s part of this whole acquiring wisdom thing—learning where one’s own limits are and how to accept them.
I also suspect it is more than simply ergonomics at this point.
Read MoreThis is a tricky conversation we’re about to have. For years we’ve encouraged you to dig deep and tell your most personal, individual stories using your unique voice. But once you’ve honed your skills and excavated your most powerful voice—then what? What if you build it and nobody comes? What if the stories you’re driven to tell are quiet ones? Or don’t hit the current market sweet spot? Or have already been done a hundred times before?
Because sometimes the inescapable fact is, the things we love to write don’t sell. So then what?
Well, you can quit—which while a perfectly reasonable, legitimate life choice, is obviously not one we here at WU hope you make.
You can also self publish. And while this post isn’t about self publishing, the truth is, with the advent of self publishing you have the option—the luxury—of being able to tell your stories your way and still have them published and available to readers. Of course, the big question is—available to how many readers and how exactly will they discover your work? But that entire topic is the subject of a different post. I just wanted to acknowledge that was a very viable option once you have honed your craft.
Lastly, you can rework your stories to try and create a larger welcome mat, or you can polish your craft and skills so that your writing shines so brightly people will simply have to pay attention to it.
So this conversation we’re having is not about selling out your artistic vision to get a contract. Nor is it about watering down your artistic integrity in order to find readers. It’s about finding the largest, widest doorway into your story so that you can to draw in as many readers as possible, and then tell them exactly the core story you’re driven to tell.
A while back, Julia Baggott wrote a terrific piece about writing books of the heart versus more commercial books and pointed out that was a false dichotomy. Her point is a critical one (and if you haven’t read the piece take a moment and do so now)—we don’t have to choose one or the other. We can find ways to put pieces of our heart in more commercial ideas as well as find ways to make the books of our heart have a broader appeal.
There are a variety of things that allow a book to stand out and find a wide audience:
gripping plot
stunning reversals and sleight of hand
compelling characters
unique original voice
exquisite language
exploring the vulnerabilities and universal truths of the human heart
And of course, the best of the best often incorporate more than one of those elements.
If you write quiet books or books that go against current market conventions, that doesn’t mean all is lost. It simply means that some of these other aspects of your work will act as the wider doormat for your potential readers. And the good news is that widening that doormat does not have to radically alter the story you are hungry to tell.
Read MoreRecently, as I was preparing for my Mortal Heart book tour, I found myself in a logistical flurry trying to pack ten days’ worth of clothes and personal items into one carry on. There was the big, obvious stuff; four pairs of pants, eight shirts, ten pairs of socks, under duds, toiletries, iPad, reading material, pens, etc. However, there were also some rather unique items. Like the veritable cobbler’s bench worth of extra insoles, arch supports, moleskin and shoe enhancers that I might need for the two pairs of shoes I was taking—both brand new since my feet had suddenly grown half a size well past the time I expected my feet to do anymore growing. Or the old black t-shirt I’ve grown accustomed to draping over my eyes instead of an eye mask.
While those were admittedly odd, they weren’t nearly as discomfiting as the small medicine chest of ‘tools’ I was bringing along to ensure I could endure the strange, torture devices that the modern plane seat has evolved into; Advil, Aleve, arnica, muscle relaxants (in case things got really hairy) and maybe even a half a Xanax or two, in case it all got to be too much.
As I struggled to fit everything into that one piece of luggage, I was struck by the enormous load of invisible baggage I was carrying with me on this trip. My worries—about travel, my feet, whether or not anyone would show up at the events. My fears—of travel delays, wickedly uncomfortable plane seats, lost luggage, public speaking (mostly gone at this stage of my life but reappearing just often enough to keep me off balance.) My hopes—that I would meet reader expectations, book sales, and my own performance. And lastly, my conditioning, if you will—from my earliest, most damaging beliefs that I did not have a right to a voice, or was allowed to speak into the public conversation at large, to my more recent attempts to rewrite that programming—helped in large part by wildly enthusiastic and generous readers, booksellers, friends and family.
The thing is, my experience is not unique. Whenever any of us set out on a journey of any length, we not only have the physical supplies we carry with us, but an invisible backpack or suitcase packed full of our hopes and fears, expectations and programming.
These invisible backpacks are one of the most intimate, rich, unique and authentic things about us. They accompany us on a trip of ten days or a ten minute jaunt to the grocery store and everything in-between. Yes, even to work, and yes, even when we work in a home office.
As a writer, these invisible backpacks are one of our most powerful tools.
The thing is, if every story is about a character going on a journey, whether a physical or metaphorical one, then they, too, should have one of these invisible backpacks. If they don’t, the journey often feels flat and unimportant, uncompelling and lacking in urgency.
Unlike a regular suitcase, the weight of the invisible one is always there. It weighs down on even our most simple actions and decisions. It’s what turns a simple act—say reaching for a cup […]
Read MoreI know a lot of you out there are gearing up for NaNoWriMo, and while you’re not allowed to begin your story until November 1, you are allowed to do pre-writing on your project, and frankly, I think pre-writing is highly undervalued, so I thought I’d talk about it this month.
The reason I’m a big believer in pre-writing is because until I have a glimmer of understanding of my character’s emotional landscape and internal settings, I don’t know what sorts of story events will challenge them. I don’t understand what sorts of interaction will push them to their limits, make them question everything, make them dig deep or lay them bare.
In the pre-writing stage, we’re gathering the materials and ingredients we will use to build our story. Pre-writing is where we discover the character’s juiciness and crunch, their texture and heft.
I get that some people do this in early drafts, and I use to be one of them, but more and more I have begun to take the time to learn this in pre-writing and thus save myself a number of unfruitful drafts. The other thing that can happen is that if we don’t have enough knowledge of our characters so we can truly challenge them, we run the risk of the story petering out. My archives at home are full of stories that simply ran out of gas. One of the biggest reasons stories peter out is due to not enough conflict or depth. If you dig deep enough, there is conflict to be found in the recesses of your character’s psyche. Pre-writing can help figure that out early on to help avoid dead ends and running out of juice.
If the question is Why should the reader care? the answer is often hidden in the backstory.
Pre-writing is all about backstory, which informs the characters and story taking place just as surely as the contours of the earth’s crust influences its landscape.
The backstory is what clues the reader in to why THIS event is so cataclysmic for THIS character. Why this hurdle has the potential to flatten her. Why this relationship is so critical to her well being. Why this situation she finds herself in will force her to grow or change in terrifying new ways.
Of course, the challenging part is once we know all this backstory, how do we weave it into the unfolding story as seamlessly as possible. The key to this is through the way the characters view the world—if they are optimistic or pessimistic, trusting or cynical, driven or lazy. It shows up in how they react to and interact with others. It informs and colors all their relationships—both with the people and the world around them. For example, some people relish interpersonal conflict, others avoid it, while some placate or respond in a passive aggressive manner. Do you know how your character responds to interpersonal conflict? Do you know why she responds that way?
In the pre-writing stage, we’re getting to know the intimate contours of our characters and hauling up the ingredients we will use to build our story. Knowing these sorts of things can really help you avoid floundering as […]
Read MorePop quiz! Studies have shown that creative people are known to:
A) Daydream. A lot.
B) They lose track of time.
C) Have wandering minds.
D) Stare at the wall. A lot.
E) All of the above
If you picked E, you are correct! Successful creatives spend much of their time so deeply immersed in their own internal worlds that, in the eyes of the world, it often appears that they’re doing nothing.
But of course, we know how very untrue that is. Our minds are busy working. Synapses are sparking, neural pathways firing, different corners of our brains coming together, making connections, leaping around seemingly unrelated topics, playing with ‘what if’ possibilities all the time.
The act of thinking used to be a respected one. It was understood that in order to have well-formed ideas and opinions—or even just make good decisions—we had to think about things. But that process doesn’t seem to be held in as much regard anymore. In our productivity-enamored, technology-driven, instantaneous response world, the act of thinking is often considered, at best—quaint, and at its least flattering, an indication of a slow mind. We’re expected to make snap decisions, instantaneous judgments (with or without all the facts, no less!) have ideas gush forth in brainstorming meetings or large, communal bull pit type offices. Then, once the idea has been decided upon, we’re expected to produce, produce, produce non stop in a straight, continuous line until a project is finished. Frankly, I’m exhausted simply writing that paragraph.
So what if your brain doesn’t work that way? Well, now you can take heart in the knowledge that many creative peoples’ don’t and in fact, if your brain doesn’t function that way, perhaps it is due to its creative nature.
For some writers, it takes time to peel off layers of ourselves and weave them into our work. It takes time to observe and study human nature, collecting and appropriating mannerisms, emotional dynamics, and dramas, and then incorporate them into our stories.
Read MoreWhile waiting is not unique to publishing, Lord knows there are thousands of opportunities for waiting in this industry. Hurry up and wait is practically our motto. Waiting on agents, waiting on editors, waiting on editorial letters, waiting on illustrators and reviews and advance checks and royalty statements.
Waiting on that first initial yes.
But it turns out, publishing’s got nothing on hospitals. In the last few days, I’ve had occasion to spend far more time in hospital waiting rooms than I would like. Recently, my 81 year old father was diagnosed with a rare, cancerous tumor that had wrapped itself around his heart. Fortunately, he is in excellent shape and was therefore a good candidate for the required grueling surgery.
At the hospital, as we waited on the surgery which ended up being delayed by five hours, the eager need to get on with it diminished and instead I became hyper aware of how precious each extra moment was. He was awake and lucid and all his future pain and rehabilitation were held at bay. Each of those extra moments was a gift, one I found I was not eager to part with.
And then, as the two hour surgery dragged in to three hours, four, six, I again found myself taking great comfort in each moment, as each was a moment with no bad news. It was the existential equivalent of Schrodinger’s Cat. Until the box is opened, hope still exists.
For that is the truth of it: waiting holds not only hope and promise, but also disaster and tragedy forestalled, even if only for a little longer. We can cheat death or disappointment one more hour, or cling to our hopes and dreams for a few minutes more.
Waiting is something we endure, white knuckle our way through or, at the very least, something we want to distract ourselves from. But maybe, instead, we should view it differently.
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