Brigitte, you have such a gift for capturing the ephemeral and putting words around experiences most of us only ever feel. This gap between the perfect idea in our minds and what actually lands on the page is something I’ve felt many times, and you named it with so much clarity and grace. This was beautifully written.
Rachel, I thank you so much. The exercise of writing this piece felt "right" and worthwhile, but it’s even better to receive feedback like this about how you and other writers have had similar experiences! ✨
This is beautiful. You captured that aching gap between the perfect idea in our minds and the imperfect, hard-won thing that finally makes it onto the page.
Brigitte, your essay highlights so much, including the seeming light years between the original pristine idea and what actually makes it onto the page, and how the difference can feel so frustrating. I am reminded of the difference between “hearing” a perfectly-pitched tune in your head and what it sounds like when you actually sing it. And thank you for the reminder that creating a piece of work that someone else can read from an original “perfect” idea isn’t occasionally messy; it’s *always* messy; and it involves hard work.
I continue to grapple with continuing to write humorous pieces while part of me (my inner critic?) keeps suggesting that I move toward more heartfelt (spelled “painful”) essays, those that resonate more deeply with others. Yet, when you say that “… it may take months, or even years, to write our best work,” it allows me to lighten up and know that the process is always far more ponderous than our egos like.
Thank you for "comparing your notes” with "mine", Larry. I’m so grateful to have fabulous writers like you as sparring partners in this often messy process of working through ideas, and to keep going!
Larry, I’m thinking about your comment on humorous vs more heartfelt writing. The way many of us are able to withstand entering the darkness — essential to reach the light on the other side—is by bringing humor along as a powerful flashlight. Imho, rather than either/or, use every gift you have. You have so many.
This so perfectly encapsulates how it feels to be inspired and the have to face the reality of the draft. I think it paralyzes so many of us at some point. I love the metaphor and the visuals involved with the wreck. You’re right though that something truer emerges!
“Duino Elegies” is high on my to-read list after reading “Letters”…this was very beautifully put. I tend to find the essays I write usually come from journal entries. I get more curious, decide to research more, and naturally they will become something bigger.
Sometimes this means I post here once or twice a week, or once a month: it depends! But I find it’s most enjoyable when I don’t push it & just let it arise out of living with curiosity & openness. This has been a major theme this month, I’ve found a lot of people touching on it & it almost feels like more than coincidence that I picked up Rilke on a whim. I love it.
Lovely reflection, Dylan. Thank you for sharing this, and I agree how noticing, including note-taking, is such a worthy practice of trusting and documenting our attention more — and the synchronicities we encounter (and that sometimes align us with others in beautiful ways too).
Brigitte, what an essay. It so eloquently captures what so many of us feel, every time, we enter the messiness of the process.
I so loved this: “This time of waiting is often a kind of slow fermentation and can be both frustrating and precious.”
We feel the frustration and must not forget to dial up the precious perspective.
For me, when I write I feel like the essay is a bunch of raw rocks I put in one of those old school rock polishers, where you add course sand in the beginning, turn on the motor and the cylinder spins for a week, then you put in finer sand, and let the process work for another week, then repeat with even finer sand for another. You can speed it up, and all the while the rocks are becoming more beautiful.
I hate the first week as all the large rocks of my idea and story are rough, along with my writing, and I imagine the perfection of the finished gem, and there is so much distance between them. But then over time and letting my subconscious (and muse) be the fine sand, the gems begin to materialize and the story starts to come together.
And a funny thing happens, when the gems are finished, they are even more beautiful than I imagined in the beginning - just like the end of an essay. Perfection ends up being a different version of perfect than was in my mind to begin with.
I have no idea if that made any sense. 😊
Most importantly, this piece of yours is exquisite. It is a gem 💎
Oh James, this makes so much sense. In fact, you perfectly describe this process! And then THIS:
"And a funny thing happens, when the gems are finished, they are even more beautiful than I imagined in the beginning - just like the end of an essay. Perfection ends up being a different version of perfect than was in my mind to begin with." – James Bailey
What beautiful feedback and sharing of all these images that I will now carry as a polished gem in my pocket. 💎
This is the part we "need" to trust more-- because it's so often true. "And a funny thing happens, when the gems are finished, they are even more beautiful than I imagined in the beginning - just like the end of an essay. Perfection ends up being a different version of perfect than was in my mind to begin with." I love the rock tumbling metaphor.
It’s an impossible task to turn the beauty inside us into mere words on a page. Sometimes we get close, and only then by loosening our grip and letting them come when and how they wish.
Lovely. I enjoy wandering through your words, always so calming in essence. Your asides in parentheses often make me smile. Your examples are always perfectly suited, whether about others and your own golden grass experiences. Poor Rilke...all those lives wasted in WWI.
Thank you for your wandering, Lily. Your comment made me both happy and sad. Indeed, all those wasted lives omg…(it also crossed my mind what Rilke would think about how writers exploit his letters!?)
Brigitte, this is *such* a useful essay. Spending hours/years in the gap of frustration is part of the process! What liberation this brings. Thanks for articulating your extremely wise thoughts here.
I’m happy this perspective resonated with you, Rick. You’re doing so much valuable work of encouraging so many writers to just. keep. writing — all without losing the compass of our inner voices and the stories that want to find expression.
Thanks Brigitte. I do it because then the same kind of help and support comes back to me, like through this essay. Glad to be on the same co-encouraging team.
Your doubt may turn into a good quality, if you train it, nurture it. It has to become knowing, become critical thinking. Whenever it tries to spoil something for you, ask it why that thing is ugly; demand proof from it, test it. Perhaps you will find it puzzled and embarrassed, perhaps it will protest. Whatever you do, don't give in: insist that it give you an argument, be vigilant and consistent in doing this every single time, and the day will come when it stops being a destroyer and becomes your best worker-perhaps the most intelligent of all of them working to build your life. - Rainer Maria Rilke, 'Letters to a Young Poet'
Hunter once said, reflectively: “Well … yes, and here we go again. But before we get to The Work, as it were, I want to make sure I know how to cope with this elegant typewriter—(and, yes, it appears that I do)—so why not make this quick list of my life’s work…”
Thank you so much, George. You’re right, the messiness is not a failure but a necessary part of writing, even though it can feel so disorienting and frustrating when we’re in it…
Brigitte, you have such a gift for capturing the ephemeral and putting words around experiences most of us only ever feel. This gap between the perfect idea in our minds and what actually lands on the page is something I’ve felt many times, and you named it with so much clarity and grace. This was beautifully written.
Rachel, I thank you so much. The exercise of writing this piece felt "right" and worthwhile, but it’s even better to receive feedback like this about how you and other writers have had similar experiences! ✨
This is beautiful. You captured that aching gap between the perfect idea in our minds and the imperfect, hard-won thing that finally makes it onto the page.
Emphasis on "hard-won thing" – yes! What we then get is also more “true” (to us) and, often, more vulnerable and courageous. Thank you, April.
An "aching gap" indeed!!! Very well put.
Brigitte, your essay highlights so much, including the seeming light years between the original pristine idea and what actually makes it onto the page, and how the difference can feel so frustrating. I am reminded of the difference between “hearing” a perfectly-pitched tune in your head and what it sounds like when you actually sing it. And thank you for the reminder that creating a piece of work that someone else can read from an original “perfect” idea isn’t occasionally messy; it’s *always* messy; and it involves hard work.
I continue to grapple with continuing to write humorous pieces while part of me (my inner critic?) keeps suggesting that I move toward more heartfelt (spelled “painful”) essays, those that resonate more deeply with others. Yet, when you say that “… it may take months, or even years, to write our best work,” it allows me to lighten up and know that the process is always far more ponderous than our egos like.
Note to self: Lighten up. Just keep writing. :>)
Thank you for "comparing your notes” with "mine", Larry. I’m so grateful to have fabulous writers like you as sparring partners in this often messy process of working through ideas, and to keep going!
Larry, I’m thinking about your comment on humorous vs more heartfelt writing. The way many of us are able to withstand entering the darkness — essential to reach the light on the other side—is by bringing humor along as a powerful flashlight. Imho, rather than either/or, use every gift you have. You have so many.
Thank you!
I really needed to hear that. 🙏
This so perfectly encapsulates how it feels to be inspired and the have to face the reality of the draft. I think it paralyzes so many of us at some point. I love the metaphor and the visuals involved with the wreck. You’re right though that something truer emerges!
Thank you for all your feedback and encouragement to follow the ideas (and metaphors of the sea) in this essay, Michelle! 💛
“Duino Elegies” is high on my to-read list after reading “Letters”…this was very beautifully put. I tend to find the essays I write usually come from journal entries. I get more curious, decide to research more, and naturally they will become something bigger.
Sometimes this means I post here once or twice a week, or once a month: it depends! But I find it’s most enjoyable when I don’t push it & just let it arise out of living with curiosity & openness. This has been a major theme this month, I’ve found a lot of people touching on it & it almost feels like more than coincidence that I picked up Rilke on a whim. I love it.
Lovely reflection, Dylan. Thank you for sharing this, and I agree how noticing, including note-taking, is such a worthy practice of trusting and documenting our attention more — and the synchronicities we encounter (and that sometimes align us with others in beautiful ways too).
Brigitte, what an essay. It so eloquently captures what so many of us feel, every time, we enter the messiness of the process.
I so loved this: “This time of waiting is often a kind of slow fermentation and can be both frustrating and precious.”
We feel the frustration and must not forget to dial up the precious perspective.
For me, when I write I feel like the essay is a bunch of raw rocks I put in one of those old school rock polishers, where you add course sand in the beginning, turn on the motor and the cylinder spins for a week, then you put in finer sand, and let the process work for another week, then repeat with even finer sand for another. You can speed it up, and all the while the rocks are becoming more beautiful.
I hate the first week as all the large rocks of my idea and story are rough, along with my writing, and I imagine the perfection of the finished gem, and there is so much distance between them. But then over time and letting my subconscious (and muse) be the fine sand, the gems begin to materialize and the story starts to come together.
And a funny thing happens, when the gems are finished, they are even more beautiful than I imagined in the beginning - just like the end of an essay. Perfection ends up being a different version of perfect than was in my mind to begin with.
I have no idea if that made any sense. 😊
Most importantly, this piece of yours is exquisite. It is a gem 💎
Oh James, this makes so much sense. In fact, you perfectly describe this process! And then THIS:
"And a funny thing happens, when the gems are finished, they are even more beautiful than I imagined in the beginning - just like the end of an essay. Perfection ends up being a different version of perfect than was in my mind to begin with." – James Bailey
What beautiful feedback and sharing of all these images that I will now carry as a polished gem in my pocket. 💎
This is the part we "need" to trust more-- because it's so often true. "And a funny thing happens, when the gems are finished, they are even more beautiful than I imagined in the beginning - just like the end of an essay. Perfection ends up being a different version of perfect than was in my mind to begin with." I love the rock tumbling metaphor.
I agree, Linda. Cheers to this metaphor and more trust in the process, and ourselves.
It’s an impossible task to turn the beauty inside us into mere words on a page. Sometimes we get close, and only then by loosening our grip and letting them come when and how they wish.
Beautifully said, Bob. Thank you. It’s comforting that we all experience varying degrees of this same "gap" and keep faith to carry on.
Lovely. I enjoy wandering through your words, always so calming in essence. Your asides in parentheses often make me smile. Your examples are always perfectly suited, whether about others and your own golden grass experiences. Poor Rilke...all those lives wasted in WWI.
Thank you for your wandering, Lily. Your comment made me both happy and sad. Indeed, all those wasted lives omg…(it also crossed my mind what Rilke would think about how writers exploit his letters!?)
Brigitte, this is *such* a useful essay. Spending hours/years in the gap of frustration is part of the process! What liberation this brings. Thanks for articulating your extremely wise thoughts here.
"What liberation that brings." Yes, indeed, and what a compliment from you, dear Kathy 💛
I needed this reminder that our best work requires time. It's a perspective that just isn't reinforced often enough in writing circles. Thank you
I’m happy this perspective resonated with you, Rick. You’re doing so much valuable work of encouraging so many writers to just. keep. writing — all without losing the compass of our inner voices and the stories that want to find expression.
Thanks Brigitte. I do it because then the same kind of help and support comes back to me, like through this essay. Glad to be on the same co-encouraging team.
Same🧡
Your doubt may turn into a good quality, if you train it, nurture it. It has to become knowing, become critical thinking. Whenever it tries to spoil something for you, ask it why that thing is ugly; demand proof from it, test it. Perhaps you will find it puzzled and embarrassed, perhaps it will protest. Whatever you do, don't give in: insist that it give you an argument, be vigilant and consistent in doing this every single time, and the day will come when it stops being a destroyer and becomes your best worker-perhaps the most intelligent of all of them working to build your life. - Rainer Maria Rilke, 'Letters to a Young Poet'
Pondering this great quote. Wow wow! Thank you for sharing it, and for taking the time to read my piece, Donal.
Wow. Thanks for sharing this.
Hunter once said, reflectively: “Well … yes, and here we go again. But before we get to The Work, as it were, I want to make sure I know how to cope with this elegant typewriter—(and, yes, it appears that I do)—so why not make this quick list of my life’s work…”
Thank you so much, George. You’re right, the messiness is not a failure but a necessary part of writing, even though it can feel so disorienting and frustrating when we’re in it…