Posted October 21st, 2003 by Michelle

So, like I’ve mentioned, I’m working on a novel. There are theories floating around about the content of my novel, but I haven’t actually told anyone. Which brings me to two little stories. Forgive me if I’ve told them before:

There was once a novice photographer who was apprenticed to a great master. Every year the novice would bring a stack of photos for the master to approve or reject. As the years passed, the master chose more and more of the photos, and the reject pile got smaller and smaller. But there was one photo that the master saw year after year, even though each time he tossed it to that pile. Every year, the novice would slip it back into his offering to the master. Finally, after ten years of rejecting the picture, the master held it up to the novice. “I’ve rejected this for years, and yet, you keep asking me to look at it again. Why?” The novice, abashed, looked at his toes. “Because I had to climb a mountain to get that picture.” “Doesn’t matter,” said the master. “It’s a bad picture. Doesn’t matter what you had to do to get it.”

Story #2, from the New York Times:

WASHINGTON (AP) — Congress is set to ban a specific abortion procedure, a legislative landmark that could lead to a fierce legal fight affecting a woman’s right to end a pregnancy. The ban on what opponents call partial birth abortion is likely to pass by a wide margin when it comes up for a vote scheduled in the Senate on Tuesday.

So what, pray tell, do these stories have to do with one another? And with me? I recently read the fifth chapter of my book. And I had a great and disappointing revelation: my book is a sweet little story, but ultimately, it means exactly nothing to me. It’s not even the stuff of a short story. It’s something you might tell your friends as you are road-tripping across Nebraska, and I say this without even knowing how it was going to end.

But I had to climb more than one mountain to get as far as I have in this book. It’s been a difficult thing, to let go of it, to realize that it is not the story I am burning to tell. Reading the New York Times every morning reminds me of what is terribly, terribly important to me. I don’t even feel the need to write down every stupid evil inflicted on my country by the current playboy in charge. But I do need to write something that matters to me, that drives me. I may keep parts of what I’ve written; I don’t know. I do know that there is a better story out there, waiting for me, dancing on the periphery, begging me to sit down in front of a blank page.

It might be yet another mountain to climb, but eventually I’m bound to find the right peak, right? Geeze. I hope so.