NANDINI NAYAR
 May05 Enid
Blyton II
Apr05 Enid
Blyton I
PENI GRIFFIN
Mar05 Last
Column
Feb05 What's
In Your Notebook?
Jan05 Read
A Little Louder
Nov/Dec04 Creativity
IV
Oct04 Creativity
III
Sep04 Creativity
II
Aug04 Creativity
Jun/Jul04 Social
Angst and All That
May04 Reading
In Public
Apr04 Elephant
In The Living-Room
Mar04 Literary
Synchronicity
Feb04 The
Most Important Thing in the World
Jan04
Year-End Wrap-Ups
Dec03 Editors...
They Ain't Want You Want, They're What You Need
Nov03 The
Secret Formula for Originality - Revealed!
Oct03 An
Incoherent Message Concerning Narrative Structure; or 'Reality. What a
concept.'
Sep03 Preaching
to the Choir
Aug03 FanFic
on ACHUKACHAT, the website discussion board...
|
The Most Important Thing in the World
by Peni Griffin
The Paleoindian book came back Saturday, February 7 - "final" edits. Sure. Ten years after its conception, I can no more believe that this book will have a final form than I can believe that a lottery ticket will pay off. My editor wants me to cut yet more length (no, no, not the snapping turtle scene!), excise an entire family, and make the magic more magical. This is the same woman who nudged me to rewrite the ending of The Ghost Sitter five times, so pardon my skepticism. And did I mention, she'd like it back by March 1?
But -
But, but, but -
But she was right about the end of Ghost Sitter. And there's a good possibility that we can have spot illustrations of the flora and fauna! If I take time off from the day job, and don't collapse again like I did this weekend, it might be possible to do everything she asks, or something even better, in the time. At least I can give it a shot. There were stacks of work looming at the office, but I worked late getting it wrapped up and -
Oh, you want to know about the collapse? It's not a big deal, just something I do occasionally. I have all the side effects of a headache without the pain and of dizziness without the vertigo; and I am not precisely nauseated, but can't make myself eat, which, since I'm hypoglycemic, makes the other non-symptoms worse. It might be stress-related or chemical or a mild form of migraine, or it might be psychosomatic, but I never faint or vomit, and I'm all right in a day or two. It's mostly a nuisance.
Despite my malaise, I went through the manuscript writing "OK" next to simple changes and slapping sticky notes on the pages I'd have to think about. I am accustomed to circling editorial suggestions, sizing them up, before I pounce and implement or improve on them, so the fact that I haven't done more yet doesn't discourage me. After all, I had to get the column in on time, too. By the time you read this, I'll be well into the job. Make no mistake, I'm up to this.
Which is not to say it's not disruptive. I'd intended to write a brilliant column, research vultures in order to revise a short story, finally finish drafting my disenchanter novel(which gets interrupted on average every three chapters), hitch a ride on somebody else's booth at the Texas Library Association convention in March so I could tempt Texas school librarians with a bound galley which it now appears won't exist, and then light out for Big Bend in April, at a time when the birds will be migrating and the day job would be in a lull. Oh, well.
This book has so much potential. It could be big. Mammoth even.
By big I mean, as big as someone like me can get. People often act as though I have grandiose illusions that must be squashed so I won't get too happy, but in fact my daydreams are modest. Newbery buzz would be nice, but I'll never get a Newbery. Earning back the advance in under a year would be a tremendous success. So would an option for a movie that never got made. If I could ride a wave of environmental concern, become famous within a narrow market niche of future archeologists, or be a big hit on Indian reservations, I'd be ecstatic. If I can quit day jobs forever before mandatory retirement age and die solvent, with a solid reputation and a dozen books in print, that's a satisfactory career. This book might do it for me.
Or, it might not. That's not within my control. All I can control is whether I give it my best.
So, why am I telling you this?
All writers have crunch times, when we have to overextend in order to meet all our obligations. We wait and wait and wait for our acceptances, our contracts, our checks - but when the publisher needs something from us, it always needs doing in a hurry. We use vacations in order to work and when we cancel our social engagements people say incredulously: "I thought you'd finished that!"
The housework won't do itself, if you miss the optimum planting moment the evidence of your dereliction will remain in your yard all year, your family obligations don't go away, and the utility company will cut you off if the check doesn't arrive on time. You can have the day job (or marry for money) and a secure routine, or you can freelance and live on the edge; but either way, you can't expect sympathy from the world you live in. Nobody told you to do this. You made your bed, now cast yourself down on it weeping hysterically.
But - and this is the important thing - the same is true of anything worthwhile you do.
If you have a vocation for the church, or architecture, or the military, or cabinetmaking, your professional crises will resemble mine. The details might differ a bit - a dedicated serviceman and a dedicated musician are unlikely to recognize each other's situations - but the fact is that, if you care about your work, you're going to be faced with conflicting obligations, overwork, deadlines, and frustration, and why is that?
Because you want the work to be the best it can be, and you sacrifice yourself to that ideal. Even while you're grumbling, or inducing mysterious psychosomatic ailments to get out of it, or explaining rationally why you can't possibly, you still tackle the work (which makes those psychosomatic ailments pointless, but my body refuses to learn). It's your calling. You can't do less.
A calling is not some mystic romantic special job that commands respect and awe. Far from it. You don't get much more mundane than real estate appraisal, the source of my day job, but come deadline time I see the same frenetic last-minute hustling in the bosses that I see in myself, as they try for a better comparable sale, a more precise adjustment, a reliable cost estimate. Appraisers fight about mold stigmas and parking configurations, confirm sales from their hospital beds, and revise reports that have already been bound for delivery because they realize they assessed costs wrong, even when this doesn't change the value conclusion. They appear in court looking snappy and professional in the morning and succumb to bronchitis in the evening. If you're not into it, it looks weird and obsessive.
But appraisers who can't be weird and obsessive don't make good appraisers, and the same goes for writers and ministers and roofers and lawyers and musicians. It's a calling if you believe that what you do is The Most Important Thing in the World, whether anyone around you agrees or not. If I didn't believe in the Paleoindian book as a good in itself, the last ten years would not have been worth any result I can reasonably expect.
I don't look at Madonna and her little books with any more contempt than my bosses look at lawyers who do their own appraising. Stick to pop singing and law - you've paid your dues there. Don't treat The Most Important Thing in the World like something you can play with and then walk away from.
If the work isn't the Most Important Thing, you won't do it right.
So please, do what matters, whatever that may be.
I want to live in a world where everything is done well.
February 2004 © Peni Griffin
|
|
