Writing, Regurgitation, and Frogs

I’m on a “writing retreat” at the moment, all by myself. I’m staying in a guest house on a gorgeous ranch in North Texas (yes, such things really do exist), enjoying the hospitality of a new friend.

And I’m supposed to be writing.

When I planned this time away, I had visions of coming home with five or six gloriously crafted chapters, all making profound statements on a cutting-edge topic, one that could seriously shake up some of my circles. I envisioned needing to write an official book proposal by the end of the week, courting agents and publishers with my earth-shattering revelation. I pictured the thousands upon thousands of words I would write, officially becoming–a writer. 

Instead, I’m heading home today with eight rather fragmented and frankly messy documents, some with as little as 50 words, and about half of which even approach the threshold of making sense at all. I’ve scrapped four other docs, because they were, well, they were crap. So I deleted them. Oh, and I added about 2000 words to a fiction piece I started six months ago.

So what did I do on my time away?

I ate. Well. (Thanks, Deb!!) I slept. I prayed. I thought. I listened.

And I learned to masticate. (That means “chew.” Grow up.) I have a habit of spitting out thoughts and ideas before I’ve fully digested them, leaning on the learning and wisdom of others to do my thinking for me. I call these my “knee jerks,” those words that come as reflex reaction to something, rather than well-thought out discussions and answers.

Social media has, I believe, allowed this practice to become more commonplace than ever before. We read a status, have an immediate thought, and before the body’s even cool we fire off what we think are scathingly brilliant replies to someone else’s probably knee-jerk-related thought. We regurgitate ideas before we’ve really digested them, boiling down the truly deep and profound to 140 characters.

We spend hours on end scrolling down endless tweets or Facebook statuses, dropping grenades as we go, blasting friends and family with what–if we are forced to admit it–are nothing more than adventures in jumping from branch to branch on the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. We don’t often take the time to think–no, I mean really think–about the things we type before we hit that sneaky “enter” button; nor do we stop to consider the fallout on the other side.

I think what I had in mind to “write” this week was a little bit like that.

Instead, I came face to face with the fact that although I have strong feelings and opinions on this subject, I am not ready to write it for anyone else to read yet. I haven’t digested it. It hasn’t become a part of the fabric that is me yet. I think I know what I think, but I want to know what I think before I spit it back out.

So, instead of the bright and shiny brilliance I had planned, I’m taking home ideas. Thoughts to ponder. Things I need to mash up, swirl around, taste, question and examine. Then, and only then, will I decide what I will digest and what I will discard. Until then, none of those documents will see the light of day. (I only hope if I don’t publish them before I die, that upon my demise this computer will self-destruct. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, posthumous publishing is the sincerest form of mockery.)

Oh, and the other thing I learned? That frogs are loud. And a lot of them are very loud. (Useful, isn’t it?)

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