My current work in progress is a revision of an earlier
manuscript that failed to find a home with my current publisher. I considered
publishing it myself, but decided instead to revise it. In the process I have
pulled out one short story about sailing and am now rewriting the novel.
At first the prospect seemed daunting, but, as often
happens, it put me in mind of an earlier challenge. Some years ago I had a
problem with a project and wandered out back to run an idea by my husband. Husband
was digging a hole in the ground. My in-laws did this often, so I didn't think
much of it. I continued to describe my problem, got the appropriate grunts and
hmms to indicate some attention from Husband, and returned to my desk.
My first problem was solved but another one came along. I
went out back to speak to Husband, who was now deeper into his hole. Curious
about why the driveway drain was in the spot it was in, he had decided to dig
down and see what was there. My problem also seemed to be growing, so I found a
folding chair in the garage and sat down in the driveway to describe my dilemma
while he continued to dig. This intermittent digging and consulting in the
driveway went on throughout the summer. The hole got deeper and my problems
more complicated.
But the hole also produced some surprises. Like a good first
draft, the hole was more than a hole.
Throughout that summer, almost twenty years ago, Husband dug
and Wife talked while sitting in the shade along the driveway. Stones large and
small flew out of the hole as Husband disappeared up to his shoulders. When his
head was no longer visible, the rocks were noticeably heavier and some, too big
to toss, had to be shoved onto the nearby lawn. But they kept coming.
As Wife came to the end of her first draft and related
problems, Husband was no longer in sight, and the pile of rocks on the lawn was
large enough to give one pause. What on earth were we going to do with them?
They weren't exactly like an extra character that could be killed off in a
story.
The last rock was gigantic and its extraction required
mechanical assistance. Husband hitched up his little sports car and we pulled
the last rock from the hole. We still didn't know what to do with them. Husband
and Wife are practical sorts, and one of us said, We could build a stone wall.
Now, Wife was not familiar with this sort of labor, but then, neither was
Husband. We set about manhandling the rocks of all sizes into some sort of
order, which seemed preferable to leaving them spread all over the back lawn.
The end result was as much of a surprise as the initial discovery, but much
nicer.
Perseverance.
This is where I expected to extol the virtues of
perseverance, but perhaps better would be to point out the importance of curiosity.
We have a lovely stone wall, the envy of a few of our neighbors who have paid
dearly for theirs, and all the result of my husband's curiosity about an old
drain in the driveway.
And my manuscript? That was the summer when Anita Ray came
to light, to appear several years later as an Indian American photographer
living at her aunt's tourist hotel, light of her life and bane of her
existence.
