Leaf-Mould

I just wrote a haiku moments ago, though to be honest I’ve been pondering it awhile and it just now coalesced:

autumn day driving
leaves littered on the long lane
whipped by my passage

And that is how much of my writing comes to be. My process is to absorb feelings, thoughts, and images. I then think about them, marinate them mentally, and wait for something to emerge from the blender of my mind.

Even while studying at university, I would wait until the last minute to write my papers, but along the way I’d have been listening in class, reading assigned material, and thinking while gazing out my dorm room window. Eventually I would just know what I was supposed to write and it would emerge on the laptop screen. Of course revising and editing would then happen, but most of the skeleton, bones, and sinew would already be laid on the table about to be animated.

It’s been the same with my poetry. I’ll have a bit of verse appear in my mind, or an entire poem (less usual), and I’ll tease it out, either on paper or in my head. Eventually I will write it down in more or less its final form. Poetry revision comes much later, usually after the poem has sat in a dusty corner and existed for a while. I will find it again, in digital file folder or physical compendium of hand-written scraps, and re-jigger and re-work, and eventually with a bit of pencil and polish, a more mature form will be set down in ink.

Maturity and time are great prisms through which to view old works. A few years ago, when I finalized a book of poetry, I found many works that were hastily returned to the cobwebbed drawers they had long lain in, but some that were worth the harsh light of cross-examination before the gentle rays of day.

I recently held a Write Night at the university where I now work. Context: I am the sole writing consultant and only card-carrying member of the Writing Center on campus. It is my job to be a resource for the student body when a piece of written material needs a second pair of eyes. It’s a great gig for 10 hours a week, and I get to interact with all sorts of interesting students and fascinating academic papers.

The Write Night I held was a first-ever Creative Write Night, during which we focused not on the academia that so largely occupies our lives, but on our innate creative selves. It was my aim to latch on to and tractor out dormant creativity in the students that showed up, and foster an atmosphere that would allow them to incorporate creativity into, shall we say, drier academic works. My success is largely unknown, but we had fun with a variety of prompts I gleaned from my undergraduate studies and re-worked for use during the Creative Write Night.

Professor J.R.R. Tolkien, who gained some measure of fame from his hobbit novels, leant a bit of assistance from the great beyond. Writing in his Tolkien: A Biography Humphrey Carpenter quotes Tolkien on the creative process:

one writes such a story not out of the leaves of trees still to be observed, nor by means of botany and soil-science; but it grows like a seed in the dark out of the leaf-mould of the mind: out of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long ago been forgotten, descending into the deeps (131)

This is what I have tried to express about my own process. Tolkien uses the metaphor of botanical processes, of loam and dirt and detritus becoming a fertile soil from which a seed germinates into a tree with many leaves. It isn’t the leaves that make the story come to life, rather it is that nutrient-rich mud that gestates the seed. And it is that nutritious silt that is best cultivated by constantly “seeing…thinking…or reading” as Tolkien would say.

Sadly, my process of reading is in shambles. I see much and think much but of late have read almost not at all. I fear my dirt is becoming dry and desiccated and doesn’t have much to offer a seed at this point. Still, I persist. This flowering post is evidence of that. Started in the weeks preceding the Creative Write Night, continuing a few weeks ago when I shared what Tolkien had to say, and culminating tonight on this blog.

I have so much from Tolkien’s Middle-Earth studies I want to excavate, and many other works that I wish to analyze and interact with, that I feel overwhelmed. But mostly I need to get reading again. My psyche assumes it cannot, my mind sometimes will not, but my soul is yearning for more material for my “leaf-mould”. I think I simply need to give myself permission to crack spines and use my pick-axe eyes to mine the riches in pages. I have many, many volumes of deep material and only need to blast my way in. I have a feeling that once I am within word repositories, I won’t come back out except to polish what treasures I find before planting them to see what will grow.

I think now of Bilbo Baggins, a timid, shy, and frightened hobbit, sitting in his hobbit-hole being confronted by the wizard Gandalf. In the film adaptation, he is overwhelmed by the enormity of the quest the dwarves wish to undertake, and he faints. When we come back to him, he is sitting with a cup of tea in his arm chair, speaking to Gandalf:

“I just need to sit quietly for a moment.”

Gandalf retorts:

“You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long…I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of elves in the woods, who would stay out late and come home after dark trailing mud and twigs and fireflies…”

Bilbo is eventually convinced to run after the dwarves and find out “what is beyond the borders of the Shire” and I feel I must do the same. I must go on an adventure, and I don’t mean to come back again. I’ve been sitting quietly for far too long myself. I may not come back, and if I do, I won’t be the same RedBeard that I am now. That frightens me, but I know, too, that is for my better; my soul needs the enrichment.

I cannot stay timid and shy and afraid. I must learn and grow and explore.