Lost

It is only the Tenth of Octo­ber, but this morn­ing (at almost nine thou­sand feet up) there are two inch­es of snow on the ground, and we are enveloped in a cloud. The air is misty, blue white, with every limb of every tree sleeved with brit­tle white ice. The tem­per­a­ture is hov­er­ing at thir­ty-two degrees, and it’s snow­ing, a fine drift of superfine bits that I have to look hard to see. No ques­tion: win­ter has come to my for­est. A good thing we got new snow tires yesterday. 

But how does the weath­er affect my writing? 

To be closed in makes me want to stay hov­ered over my writ­ing desk, to focus on the new plot, to think through yet again what I’m try­ing to do, to tell, to bring to life. But in fact, my cur­rent project is at an impasse. I’m stand­ing still. I’m not sure where to go. The truth is, I’m rather lost. 

So, since, it is very beau­ti­ful out there, the thought of wan­der­ing through a for­est shroud­ed in mist, is far more tempt­ing than any­thing I can write. 

Because I have a mem­o­ry of being lost. 

One day I went out for a walk in the woods, and bid my big dog, McKin­ley (an Alaskan Mala­mute) to come with me. At the time the sum­mer foliage was thick, and we dipped down into a lit­tle vale, so that I sud­den­ly could no longer see the moun­tain peaks by which I nav­i­gat­ed my walk. I real­ized I had no idea where I was. Though I knew (intel­lec­tu­al­ly) I was no more than a mile from my home, I felt a shot of pan­ic. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know which direc­tion was home. I was lost. 

I turned to McKin­ley. “Go home!” I told him. 

He looked at me quizzi­cal­ly, clear­ly think­ing (and puz­zled) that I was telling him I no longer want­ed his lov­ing com­pa­ny. I adjust­ed my words. “Go find home, McKin­ley,” I told him. “Go on!” 

He start­ed off, stopped, and looked back. When he saw me fol­low­ing, he went for­ward. Like the supe­ri­or being he was (rather like a par­ent lead­ing a child,) he kept going, but every few feet he paused, wagged his tail, and checked that I was still com­ing. It didn’t take long for him to lead me home. 

What does this have to do with writing?

Some­times (and it hap­pens quite often) I’m not sure how to go for­ward. And while the dilem­ma is nev­er far from my mind I’ve learned that it’s just best to relax, go for walk, and acknowl­edge that I am stuck. Then I can depend on my instincts, or bet­ter yet, my dog’s instincts, to lead me in the direc­tion I want to go. 

Read­ers often think writ­ers know where they are going. All I can say, in my case, I more often have to dis­cov­er where I’m head­ing. Wan­der­ing through winter’s white for­est can help. Doing noth­ing can achieve much.  Being lost is often the best way to get home.