Process is my favorite body of water—tidal, always thirsty. One way to talk about it is by its physical geography and its routines: how long do you sit at your desk? What kind of paper do you prefer? Pen or pencil? Solitude or cacophony? Morning or night? Coffee or red wine? For me, its main ingredients are elbow grease and openness. To drain any tension out of writing, I try to think of process as a relationship like any other. I spend time with my instruments; I sit down with my words. I try to give them the tenderness and attention I would a loved one.
I’m superstitious about mentioning the unpredictable part of process which is mystery. Best practice is to ready for when the unexpected takes over while simultaneously pretending those moments don’t even exist so as not to scare them away. I look the other way while in pursuit, as if coaxing a bird out of a house. To ward off jinx, I pledge fidelity to hard work. It’s a little like talking about dreaming or about sex; words belie, betray and scare intimacy away. Magic cannot be planned, controlled or even counted on, but magic cannot be overlooked.
What can honestly be said about process’s magic is that it always, by nature, proceeds. A circle in a circle, a thread in a thread, its endlessness is the very reason we pursue our noise and our fables. Having perspective on that is a fallacy, something we tell ourselves to find purchase, to tie ourselves to the rock face safely. As soon as focus comes clear, the picture changes.
From “Make Room for Magic” by Tift Merritt (@tiftmerritt) for Oxford American, 2017; Photo by Parker Fitzgerald (@parkerfitzhenry)
