The Writing Life

Dillard continues to explain the difficulties of living in the “life of the mind” (47), but she also explores how writing demands physical space in the material world. Not only does a writer need “paper, pen, and a lap” (46), they need space enough to lay out their pages, to physically traverse them, so they may see the various strands of the work. The space could be anything from a “twenty-foot conference table” to an entire warehouse (46). The bigger the work, the bigger the space, and the more movement that may be necessary to “[bend] over the rows” of paper “like a gardener” (46). This metaphor of manual labor imbues writing with a physical arduousness that may not be initially apparent to the modern writer who uses a computer. Personal computers did not become common until the 1980s, so Dillard’s early years of writing did involve manually organizing, laying out, and keeping track of her pages.

Dillard shares a humorous anecdote about learning to chop wood at her cabin on Lummi Island, but the story also functions as a metaphor for the writing process. There are two distinct periods in her wood-chopping journey: the period of instant gratification, and the period of delayed and unfulfilled gratification. Dillard initially feels like she is “chipping flints” (42)—nothing of great substance—but she warms herself through the exertion. This is like the early stages of writing: The writer has a lot of momentum and feels instantly good about their progress, but the early passages, like she says in Chapter 1, will most likely get discarded. After Dillard dreams of the proper method, she chops the wood into larger pieces, but “forfeit[s] [her] chance of getting warm” (43). This is like the later stages of writing: The writer has a better grasp of what is necessary for the work, but the progress can feel unsatisfying or even disappointing in comparison to earlier enthusiasm.

The image of the chopping block, of “aim[ing] through the wood” (59) for the best success, returns as a metaphor for the writer’s vision. The vision is not the chopping block, but rather the piece of wood that one must aim through. If the writer were to aim at the vision—like aiming directly at the wood—they will become frustrated with their lack of success. The vision is a mental image, a “translucent” and “imaginary object” (56). The physical process of writing words on paper—or painting on canvas, as she also compares it to—necessarily does not live up to the dynamics of the imagination. The vision starts the process—like the wood piece is necessary for the task of chopping it—but in the action of writing/chopping, the vision and the wood must be ignored for the best results.

Dillard personifies writing and the page to illustrate the various relationships the writer has with their work. The writing can be like a “dying friend” who must be approached with “dread and sympathy” (52). The writing is incapacitated in this state, on the verge of collapse, and it is the writer’s duty to visit it daily with careful thought. The relationship to the personified writing quickly becomes sour, however, if the writer “skip[s] a visit or two” (52). Returning to the necessity of constant effort, Dillard explains that if the writer chooses to neglect their work, the writing can become directly oppositional and threatening like a “lion growing in strength” (52). At this point, the writer would be deterred from working altogether and lose enthusiasm for the project. Later, Dillard calls the page “jealous and tyrannical” (57) in its ability to distort the writer’s vision. In all cases, the writer feels a sense of fear towards the work. In the relationship between the writer and their work, the writing holds all the power.

Dillard’s anecdotes about the sphinx moth, the Aztec sacrifice, and the Zulu warrior all deal with scenarios of mortality. In each story, the subject knows that their deaths are certain or highly likely, and so Dillard believes these subjects would have no issue finding something to write about with fervor. The average writer, on the other hand, is unlikely to feel a similarly “extraordinary state on an ordinary morning” (47). The moth, whose death is the most uncertain, takes to “supercharg[ing]” it’s “flight muscles” (48) before flying. Like the moth, Dillard and other writers need to mentally prepare themselves before taking the plunge into writing because starting from a standstill is near impossible. Each anecdote stresses the scale of the writing task, which requires immense amounts of mental preparation.

Dillard intermittently mentions the absurdity of the writer and the writing project. As compared to her neighbors on the island who are “good, sane people” who enjoy what they do (53), writers like herself are “deranged” because they complain about their work and yet continue anyway (54). Dillard’s story about bruising her pinky finger with a clothespin to remind her of a boiling kettle is—to her—a perfect example of the lengths a writer will go to keep themselves in the real world. The story prompts Dillard to ask, “Why people want to be writers I will never know” (46), because a sane person would not need such reminders of reality.