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How maddening is writing? You can answer that for yourself, of course. But when I step back and really consider what we, as writers, put ourselves through—a thankless task, mind you—it’s almost absurd. Take my process, for example. I wouldn’t call it unusual, but hell, maybe it is. First, I vomit words straight from my brain onto the page. No filter, no finesse—just raw thoughts spilled out. Then comes the editing, which for me, requires a tangible quality. I print out a hard copy because I need the physicality of pen and paper. Touch helps me grapple with my words. From there, it’s a seemingly endless cycle: edit, type in changes, print, repeat. And repeat. And repeat. By the time I’ve slogged through 40 drafts, I might finally begin to feel somewhat comfortable—like maybe I won’t completely embarrass myself. And then maybe I'll let someone read it. But that is a difficult one. But even then, let’s be honest—are we ever truly finished editing? I think, and maybe it's just me, but I could "finish" something and revisit it in a year and I guarantee the first page would be full of edits. Maddening, I say. Maddening.  I believe this was the fortieth iteration of this piece.
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As I mentioned in a previous post, I need to do something physical to ground myself after finishing a writing project, whether it lasts three months, three years, or—sometimes, painfully—longer. Recently, I found myself walking around our property, taking stock of the sculptures I’ve created over the years. In doing so, I realized I’d neglected to properly introduce the Headward family. They're a collection of primitive art pieces that look, well, primitive. The first Headward was inspired by the colossal Olmec heads residing at the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. I built him not long after we completed a pond alongside our house. I thought it would be interesting to have a sort of marker to track how much our property floods during hurricanes. As it turns out, Headward serves that purpose perfectly: when the water level in the pond rises by five feet, it reaches his eyebrows. Beyond that point, it’s uncharted territory—and we know we’re in trouble. Now, over 20 years later, Headward is still standing strong, weathered by time and the elements, aging gracefully as part of the landscape.
Red Headward, is my favorite. Pardon the hurricane debris around him, but he's a good looking lad. He's rock solid and he'll be around for a hundred years or more. That's a lot of concrete built around four or five discarded care tires that we used for his armature. He's about five foot tall and perhaps two hundreds pounds. |
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