I have been seeing saints lately. Or, more precisely, the faces of saints.

Let me back up.

Several weeks ago, while flipping through TV channels searching for the pre-game hype for the Patriots-Cowboys match-up, I came across a program that stopped me in my tracks. It was called “Divining the Human: Tapestries.”

The documentary was about the work of John Nava, a California artist and American realist who created the paintings for the tapestries of 136 saints he did for Los Angeles’ Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels.

According to Nava, throughout the history of art painters such as Rembrandt have depicted “recognizably ordinary people” as saints and so he, too, decided to use as models for the works, people from his town. The resulting paintings were transposed into computerized images and then woven into tapestries in Bruges, Belgium, marrying the most modern of arts with one of the oldest. Vermeer-like in composition, these monumental tapestries are compelling. All ages and ethnicities are represented. Nava’s saints were people just like us. He has found the human component of the divine. As I watched the documentary which juxtaposed Nava’s actual models with the resulting paintings, I was moved to tears.

Later that afternoon, I headed off to a concert by the Cape Cod Symphony - the second of the season with the dynamic new conductor, Jung-Ho Pak. As I drove along the mid-Cape highway, the images of Nava’s saints lingered in my mind. And they were with me, still, as I stood in the corridor outside the auditorium, one of several hundred people.

And then, as I looked around, I saw in the human faces of those around me, Nava’s saints. I could see the divine in each. In each. Every one.

This “halo effect” lasted throughout the concert and for days beyond. It was as if I were seeing with different vision. The clerk bagging my groceries at the market, the patrolman directing traffic by a construction site, the young girl waiting for the school bus, the elderly woman in line at the bank - all seemed divine. I might as well have been stripped of my skin.

Gradually, as the days have passed, less and less do I find myself seeing through the “Nava lens.” But for those moments when it happens, life changes.

Try it. Try seeing saints in the faces around you.

Posted by Anne LeClaire at 04:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

One spring, a fellow writer sent me a postcard from the British Library in London. On one side was a reproduction of an early draft of William Blake’s poem, “The Tyger.” The page was thick with scratched out lines, crossed out words and phrases, inked in amendments. “Aren’t we encouraged,” my friend wrote, “to see just how much revision Wm. Blake felt he needed.”

As I stared at Blake’s tiny, elegant writing, I was both encouraged and, momentarily, astonished that the visionary poet had to revise at all. Once again I had fallen victim to the falsehood that real writers don’t have to struggle, don’t have to rewrite.

There are many myths that are destructive to the writer and I think this is one of the most damaging. It is a poisonous delusion and even writers who know better use it as a whip of self-flagellation.

It is a myth that dies hard.

We pick up a book. Our eyes wonder over the pages. We eat up sentences that sing, prose that excites and enlightens. And – because the language is elegant - we tend to assume it came easily to this particular writer. We believe this author had an open line to the muse or tooth fairy or whoever is responsible for kick starting the creative process, that her words flowed without struggle or second thought. We believe this the same way we believe some people can have cheese Danish for breakfast, lasagna for lunch, fried clams and creamed sauces for dinner and never pack on two ounces.

Of course we know better. We have the experiences of those who have hiked the trail, send word back.

John Hersey said that “to be a good writer is to throw away a good deal.”

“Rewriting,” says William Zinsser in “The Courage To Write,” “is the essence of writing.”

E.B. White and James Thurber, two writers whose finished works were seamless, rewrote
manuscripts eight or nine times. Twenty-two pages in raw form are boiled down to three when Allan Gurganus revises.

“I rewrite to be reread,” Andre Gide said.

”The more I revise,” says Gail Godwin, “the more the novel comes alive.” She believes not to revise is inexcusable carelessness.

When Raymond Carver finished a first draft, it often ran 40 pages. The completed story was half that.
“Cut a good story anywhere and it will bleed,” Chekov wrote. Like Carver, he knew that to draw blood one must carve away dead flesh

“Colleen McCullough worked on “The Thornbirds” for five years. During that time, she rewrote the whole thing ten times from beginning to end.

“Only the hand that erases can write the true thing,” Meister Eckhaart noted. And novelist Phyllis Whitney said that “good books are not written, they are rewritten.”

Over and over writers report that revisions are a crucial part of work. It is about making the work better, making it fulfill its promise.

The last thing in the world beginning writers want to hear is that a necessary part of writing is revising. They want someone to get down to the real business, like how to land an agent.

“That’s work,” they moan, as if writing should be easy.

"Yes.”

“But I might as well be building a house,” they cry.

“Exactly.”

A craft, after all, requires attention to the components of craftsmanship. Allan Gurganus noted that he really sees little difference between high art and a beautiful, beautiful table. That means putting in the necessary hours. A novelist needs staying power, not only to withstand rejection, disappointment and the heavy stone of discouragement, but for the process itself. It takes stamina and patience to rewrite.

Another reason writers resist rewriting is because, as William Zinsser says, “We have emotional equity in our writing. We can’t believe it wasn’t born perfect.”

What most beginning writers want to learn is how to get published. What they most desire is to both be published and get famous. What they don’t want to hear is that they need to rewrite, to hone the material.

Just tell me the good stuff, they plead. How can I get an agent?

More than one writer confesses they love having written but hate writing. It’s a human tendency to want to escape the work.

But, as I recently reminded a student at the Maui Writers Conference, writing is the work.

Good writing is disciplined, sharp with clarity, with every word necessary. To achieve it, we must attend to our writing. This very attention brings richness and a depth of meaning to the work. And we best serve it by remembering what carried us to it in the first place.

Love of language and love of story are what bring us to the work. As in life, it is this love that also liberates and sustains us in the labor.

Posted by Anne LeClaire at 07:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)