writing and not knowing

Following the mystery: We're all going to Graceland.

Graceland underfoot

 

My DVR decided recently that I needed to watch a documentary about Paul Simon and the making of his “Graceland” album. It was a happy accident—I’ve loved those songs for years. They accompanied me on a long-ago train ride that wound along the edge of the country from Seattle to Washington, D.C., days and nights of staring out at snowfields, swampland and kudzu until my face looked back at me clearly from the glass and told me that what I’d left behind was broken, but I wasn’t.

It was no wonder I couldn’t get enough of lyrics like these:

There is a girl in New York City Who calls herself the human trampoline And sometimes when I'm falling, flying Or tumbling in turmoil I say Oh, so this is what she means She means we're bouncing into Graceland….

I’d always just assumed that some logical process had produced those words—a pilgrimage to the land of Elvis, perhaps a break-up. The writer was sparked by something he wanted to express and searched for the words to say it, artfully. Isn’t that how such a song would come to be?

Actually, not at all. Simon explains that as he worked to match lyrics to pieced-together tracks of music recorded with African musicians, he played with “certain sounds that became words. Sometimes those words formed a phrase and the phrase was interesting. Sometimes the phrase was banal. Sometimes it didn’t make any sense, like ‘I’m going to Graceland,’” which he used as a placeholder because it fit the music well.

“I kept singing this chorus, “I’m going to Graceland, I’m going to Graceland,'" Simon says. "And I kept thinking, ‘Well that will go away, because this song is not about Elvis Presley…. But it wouldn’t go away.

“Finally, I said ... I’d better go to Graceland—I’d never been. I’d better make that trip and see if maybe there’s something about this that I’m supposed to find out.”

Slowly, it came clear that “the song was about a bigger meaning,” he says.“It was a metaphor for a state of grace. I was taking an absurdist lyric for which I thought I had no place … and finally saying, Well, maybe it does….”

I find this account comforting and inspiring. Sometimes, we back into meaning. It glimmers around the edges of a phrase or image that sticks in the mind and won’t let go. Inconveniently, it doesn’t make sense. The opposite of the “lightning through the pen” image of creativity, it’s not delivered fully formed. Or half-formed, even. It’s a wisp, a problem, a distraction. You can easily it brush off, push it away.

Or you can give in and follow it to Graceland.

(The documentary, if you’re interested is called “Paul Simon’s Graceland Journey: Under African Skies.” Some segments are available on YouTube, and a 1997 documentary, “Paul Simon: Graceland,” parts of which are used in the new one, is streaming on Netflix. It’s worth a look, even if you’re not a fan, for Simon’s articulate account of what it’s like to be drawn toward a beautiful mystery, then—with a mixture of willingness, doubt and persistence—to find out what it wants to be. Lyrics above are copyright Universal Music Publishing Group.)

Image by Whatnot (Jack Keene) via Flickr

This writing business could get messy. (It’s supposed to.)

If you’re making notes daily, observing the world and writing ten or fifteen minutes at a time, your collection of lines may not seem like much at first. You may have a glowing jarful of fireflies when you look one day, and swear the next that all you’ve got is sweater lint. So hold off on labeling for a while and just keep going. Look for what draws you in, what sends a tiny jolt through your mind or memory. And keep paying close attention to the ordinary. You can’t know, early on, how your wild, random collection of observations will be (or has been) orchestrated by the part of you that writes. But as you go, you’ll begin to see patterns, and doors that call you through them as you keep feeling your way through them. You'll begin to notice where your mind wants to take you.

Standing in the shower at the gym last week, I found myself studying the tile in front of me, a light mauve square pale mottled by mist, layers of condensation and the faint trails of splashes and drips. As I stared, it became the fabric for a summer dress, delicately patterned, or perhaps slightly ruined, then a canvas I wished I could paint, then a bathroom wall that my mother and I had scrubbed once for a wealthy family on the other side of town. I ran my finger over it, bringing myself back, and got out to search for paper.

In paying attention to what's in front of you, you'll find what's inside, as well. Look carefully. Enter what you see. You’ll discover where you’re going by going; meaning will find you.

It's there for you to discover

Enjoy the messiness and loopy trains of thought that string your notes and observations together. There’s a story in there. A poem. A scene. I’ve always been amazed at how much has grown from what I'd initially despaired over as “false starts.”

Patience and persistence, beautiful writer person. Stay with it. Tell me in the comments what you discover.

(The fabulous Sally Schneider at The Improvised Life, has a great archived post on the messiness of creating here.)

Image by Jamelah e. via Flickr