Writing in the throes of Mercury Retrograde

A writing retreat to complete the second draft of my novel, The Antarctic Bridge

The End.

…

A possible new ending. The shattering sense that it remains, still, a new beginning.

A hummingbird flickers in the tree, right behind me, signalling, with those final words, joy, rebirth, infinity and learning to savour the nectar of the past.

It’s not relief that I feel, but excitement and the weight maybe too, of all that remains to be done, explored, written, fixed, imagined, inspired, deleted, rewritten.

I’m not one for second drafts. They’re messy, confused and confusing, frustrating and deeply unsatisfying. I love the thrill, the discovery of first drafts. I usually fumble my way through the next drafts, until, finally, it clicks, and magic weaves itself through the pages, creating a beautiful, cohesive whole. But until then, I traipse through the mud and the thickness of misaligned words and disenchanting connective structures.

After the joy of letting the first draft unfold, I quickly realised that my 1-hour daily sessions would never make a dent on the draft and that I needed to change my writing routine to hope to see, one day, an ending, then a renewal. The summer saw me devoting 2 or 3 hours of editing at a time, every day, and I could finally see the needle move in the right direction. Systematically, I found myself in editing flow after one hour of work, and I knew this intensive rhythm would carry me to the end.

My impulsive eagerness took the driving seat. I wanted to finish the second draft, to move to the next stage, to make it better, to get it in the hands of my first reader and to get closer to the faraway finish line, one where my vision and the story would make sense on paper.

I scheduled a writing retreat, as I had done in the past couple of years, to finish a screenplay, to savour the joy of the first draft of my book and this time around, to finish the second draft. I wasn’t counting on Mercury retrograde, nor on all the other retrogrades, my need for integration after an intensive weekend of shamanic training or simply what I needed for a successful writing retreat. The universe had other plans for me, and a few lessons to teach. The planned week for the retreat became 5 days, littered with exhaustion, anxiety and frustration at myself and the universe. It was, in retrospect, the perfect metaphor for the chaos of the second draft, of the emotions taken and given during this stage of the writing process and of the devotional work, patience and trust it takes to move through it.

I tried to force my surrender and I moved through a few more chapters. I was frustrated again. And I surrendered fully, accepting that I wouldn’t be able to control the rhythm of my editing, nor that I could force the inspiration and flow to find their way through my fingers. I relaxed. I settled. I anchored into the pace, the rugged roughness and silent slowness of this writing journey. The week ended. I took a few days break. I took the road and allowed myself to find joy, to love, to live and play, with always the goal in mind to finish this draft, by devoting myself and writing every morning, as much as I could, as much as my energy would let me. I surfed, I hiked, I travelled, I laughed, I loved, I played and I wrote. I travelled once more, in transition and limbo, as so often I found myself in the past, and I wrote.

In the rainforest, in the waves, on boats and roads, in my own version of a flowy-floaty structure/schedule, with half-organised routines, with the guidance of animals and faith, it was all, ever-unfolding. I had forgotten, once more, that the road is my anchor, that the road can be supportive too, that the road is my compass, that travel brings a flow into my life, that it makes my writing, my creative flow come alive, inspired by movement, newness, creativity, curiosity, the unknown.

My writing, my art, is born at the crossroads, from the unknown and the magic of surrender, serendipity. The novel too, is deeply rooted in a culture of travel, with its characters, its background and plot. I had started the second draft on the shores of Vancouver Island and Seattle back in April. And that’s where I needed to live, breathe, be and write to finish it too, on the shores of the Pacific, surrounded by mystical animals, magical nature and imaginative creatures.

I take the road again tonight, onto another shore. I’ll settle in a slice of paradise for a few weeks. I’ll slow down, I’ll create routines and rhythms again. It will be a perfect time to work on the structure of the novel, to build borders to my writing. Until it will be time, to flow again and to find and embrace the unknown in my routines, to bring wholeness into the 3rd draft, in-between flow and structure, shores and oceans, borders and wild lands.

A hummingbird speeds past the stairs, down the garden and onto the shore of the sound.

It’s time to slow, to flow, to bring stillness in movement and movement in stillness, for the writing to fly and for inspiration to grow. And through it all, to live through the joy of writing. And to learn from the hummingbirds.

With much love and flow,

Lucie

What is your writing process like? Do your enjoy first drafts or second ones? What makes it come alive for you? I would love to read and share about your own experiments and artistic journeys.