Ammi Phillips: Harriet Leavens [1802-1830] (c. 1815)

"…the direct eventual result of this writer writing."

Seven summers ago this morning, I was up writing very early, as had been my habit for just over a year by then. I had begun this writing discipline after a six-month-long Dark Night of the Soul wherein I wondered if I had ever—indeed, would ever—become a writer. I quelled my fretting by writing, a simple enough resolution in retrospect, but a serious question when still prospective. I speculated that if writers write, then I could only hope to answer the question of whether I was a writer by writing. I needed plenty of reassurance then, so I began by dedicating myself to daily stints. I'd write early in the morning, before my day could slip away from me. Neither the content nor the purpose mattered then, for I was just seeking reassurance. If I could maintain that modest commitment, I figured I might eventually consider myself to be the writer I aspired to become.

In reality, the effort proved to be a little more complicated, since this fresh dedication demanded a level of diligence I'd never invested in anything before. That first year, I completed four book-length works: AnotherSummer, AnotherFall, AnotherWinter, and AnotherSpring. Finishing each volume proved reassuring, if somewhat anticlimactic. By the end of that initiating year, I had gained some sense that I wasn't merely a wannabe writer but an actual practicing one. It would have seemed ingenuous to have written for three hundred and sixty-five days in succession and not come to what seemed like that fairly conclusive conclusion, for I had written. I amended my earlier speculation: a writer writes and has written.

The second year demanded something different than what had satisfied the first. It would not do to continue with AnotherAnotherSummer. One of the troubling aspects of writing comes with its presence. It produces lasting catalogues. Nobody needs to read the same work twice. Once an author has written something, its topic seems more or less finished. The practice appears one-and-doneish, such that the writer needs to continually come up with fresh topics and new focuses. Nobody needs the same story told twice, or over and over and over again. A writer must do more than mechanically write and thereby have written; a writer must be continually investigating fresh territory. So when that first anniversary arrived, I experienced a little writer's crisis, knowing that I needed to continue writing and leave writing behind. I also needed a fresh topic upon which to focus my efforts.

I’d been working on a manuscript before I entered that lengthy Dark Night of the Soul, which I'd not finished, so I decided to move into that unfinished space. My new context almost immediately foiled my intention. My previous work had been intermittent, and perhaps because of that, it seemed incoherent within my adopted daily production practice. Further, I needed something other than an outline to guide my hand, for the topic of this proposed work couldn't tolerate that approach. I was considering finishing a work I'd innocently labeled Cluenessness. My premise insisted that Cluelessness was not half the problem our tenacious inability to cope with it tends to become. I intended to promote Cluelessness as more of a feature than a problem and, further, feature my own continuing Cluelessnesses as examples. This would not be an instruction manual for avoiding inevitable Cluelessness but an exposé wherein I would out myself for continually exemplifying Cluelessness in practice.

I finished that series by the end of that seven years ago summer. I compiled the individual daily production into a manuscript and shared it with a few volunteers. I asked them not to edit the work or write a review, but to agree to have a conversation with me after they'd read the work so that I might get a sense of their experience with it. Those conversations were enlightening and humbling, and I continued, intermittently, to progress the work toward publication, yet another aspect of being a writer I clearly hadn't mastered then. Writers write, they leave writing behind, they find fresh focuses, and they publish. Publishing might largely be a matter of believing, for it requires much exposure of internal details to public scrutiny. This exposure might seem especially threatening to introverted writers like me, who do not write for publicity. We exclusively write for ourselves.

I struggled to find a niche within which to promote this work. I struggled to classify it and identify similars, each seemingly impossible expectations to satisfy. Friends and colleagues helped. I learned that a writer needs to ask for help since no writer qualifies as an island. Every published work represents a communal effort. I decided to publish Cluelessness myself, since I was the only one qualified to approve its publication. I searched to find an ethical self-publisher before, in almost a fit of pique, signing a contract. This act created unforeseen complications, not the least of which was the need, even after three complete edit passes, to have the work professionally copyedited. Writers, like everyone else, encounter unanticipated expenses.

This week, the manuscript returned from the copyeditor, and I began re-reading it for the very first time. I had grown so familiar with the material that I had devolved to doubt its viability. Familiarity with the written word does not necessarily breed contentment. I knew the punchlines. Hell, I wrote the freaking jokes as well as the setups! Still, this material returned by the copyeditor carried an unfamiliar sheen. She hadn't changed much, but she enhanced my voice, the sure sign of an excellent copy editor's hand! She questioned my curious capitalizations and concatenations, but didn't insist that I strictly adhere to the Chicago Manual of Style. She just made sure that I knew when I deviated from the norm, with concern that I not confuse my readers. I retained most of those deviations as signature features of my personal style. A writer also speaks in a unique voice, unlike any other. I'm now getting to know my manuscript, my old and lightly abused friend, for the very first time again. I feel a growing confidence that this publication will not humiliate me or tarnish my reputation. It might even prove to be a worthy addition to this writer's legacy, another in an ever-lengthening line of so-called finished writing, the direct, eventual result of this writer (finally) writing.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz