Immersion

Big-Ass Revision Series

Heceta Beach . . . the perfect afternoon break.

Immersion is easier than dabbling! A glorious takeaway from my Big-Ass Novel Revision.

For years, I’ve been relying on residencies and library workrooms and sound-cancelling headphones so I can work without interruption on my short stories and essays. But I am now deep in the novel and it doesn’t matter if J has turned up Frank Zappa or my phone is ringing in the other room or the Instapot is hissing up a storm of black bean steam. I have only one world: my story. Blissful!

True, when beginning a story (or just about anything) I need every drop of silence and clarity. When stepping away from the work even for a few days, I’m groping in the fog again, needing all the concentration I can muster. But there’s something amazing about the immersion stage, which only happens after spending consistent time day after day, that enables the writing to take over for me.

I wonder if we’re not getting to that immersion stage, most of us. I wonder if we quit at the squirmy feeling of can’t-concentrate, throwing up our hands at the blare of Oak Island on TV (yes, J, watches that) or the pile of dishes waiting to go in the dishwasher, and close our documents or notebooks and walk away.

While in my immersion stage, frustration quiets to a murmur of criticism which is basically normal and ignorable. I can brood and mull and ponder and adjust without forgetting the prince’s eye color, or what happens after the fire breaks out, or whether the peddler told his secret at the inn, or if the miller suspects he is harboring a princess.

I’ve drawn timelines and maps and charts. I’ve carried the characters to bed and woken up with them whispering on my pillow. It’s easier than I ever thought.

As far as getting other things done . . . not so much. Yesterday I took a stab at cleaning my office, opening bills and documents and stacking unsent letters and half-finished this’s and that’s. There’s a dead plant on the front porch that is beyond brown and soggy; it’s been so many weeks now, it’s reached the crinkly black stage. I keep saying I will clean up the overbrewed kombucha which I’ve pushed to the back of the pantry cupboard, three Ball jars of dark scary-looking brew—who knows what lurks within?

Here I am, confessing to you, why I haven’t sent a missive for a while.

There’s a cost to going deep, but it’s a cost I’m willing to pay. Thank you for your understanding . . . and I wish for you, too, a little of this happy chaos.

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