Jean Ryan

In Our Own Time

“It’s too early for most things and too late for almost nothing.”

Is that a great quote, or what? I don’t know who first uttered those words, but each time I bring them to mind I am filled with fresh resolve.

We’re all brought up on a time table, expected to accomplish certain things at certain ages: walking at twelve months; talking by the age of two; driver’s license at sixteen; high school diploma at seventeen. The more time that passes before these hurdles are cleared, the higher they seem to become.

Writing, a chosen pursuit, carries no such expectations. Some authors, canny enough to make a living off their words, must mind their contracts and calendars. For the rest of us, writing is a labor of love and we proceed in our own time, rewarded or not.

Unfettered by demand for my words, I still worry now and then that I haven’t written enough of them. I consider the prodigious outputs of Joyce Carol Oates and John Updike, or the early success of Michael Chabon, or the sheer brilliance of Yann Martel, and I feel like a hopeless straggler.

Fortunately this wasteful brooding passes quickly. Life gives me a nudge and I am back where I belong. I remember the story I’ve started and there is nothing to do but pick up my pen and continue working. There are millions of writers in this world and there is room for every one of us. No one can write this story but me.

Relaxing into Writing

I used to log onto various online writing sites with a username I thought wonderfully apt: wordchaser. That term epitomized the writing process for me, a sometimes rewarding and always frustrating hunt for the best words. There were no shortcuts, scant rewards, certainly no room for fun.

Over time, my thoughts on writing began to change. While the process will always be a challenge, I’ve come to realize that it needn’t be an adversarial arrangement. I can actually relax a bit, loosen the reins. The words I want are out there and if I am patient and attentive, I can coax them in, if not now, then soon. I can even rise from my chair and do something else, and while I am sleeping or eating or vacuuming, the words arrive on their own. I go back to my desk and the sentence I had rewritten a hundred times is suddenly, strangely, there.

The well is always filling. I can trust it. I can look up from the page and enjoy another view, and no harm will come to the story. There will be more words and more stories.

Oh, I still hunt now and then, but these days I do more word charming than chasing.