I went to a writing retreat day recently, the first time I have attended any such event. I was a mix of excitement and nerves. Determination and fear of self-aggrandisement. Imposter syndrome, ah oui, c’est moi. The day went well. My life was not transformed, but nor was it undermined. The main thing I took away was the blindingly obvious fact that, to be a writer, you have to write. Make the time, set the starting point, see what happens.
You need to begin. Keep going for a bit, regardless. Pause, reflect, reorientate. Begin again.
It is just that simple and of course it is not at all simple.
So here I am, in a strange room, with the connivance of a friend to make the opportunity, taking the time. And my starting point is a word: persevere. It’s mid-14th century in origin, apparently, but from old French and, prior to that, from Latin. And all that time without any change of meaning, which is hugely pleasing. A word which did what it says. Perseverare “continue steadfastly, persist” – per (through, by means of) acts as an intensifer, and severus means “serious, grave, strict, austere” (while also making all the Harry Potter fans go ‘ooh’). To persevere is to stick at something with serious determination and fixity. Be steadfast. And that’s why we didn’t need ‘persevere’ in English before the 14th Century. We already had a word for it: be steadfast, which has a line of descent from stedefæst old English, when it was used to describe the warriors in the Battle of Maldon. Steadfast – secure in position, firmly in place. Persevere has a sense of movement about it also, which I like. Be steadfast in commitment, persevere in practice.
As a writer, much of the time this manifests itself in re-writes. Constant going back, reading, changing, undoing the changes, trying again, reading, tweaking, reading again and, maybe, the story moves forward a little. I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that you don’t finish a novel, you just decide to stop. Have to stop, perhaps, for as fatigue takes hold, faith in the project threatens to drain away completely (hello again, imposter syndrome).
As a person, much of the time I think perseverance manifests itself in fresh starts after failure. Sometimes with the encouragement that one may at last be failing less badly. And perseverence in the form of this cyclical practice makes me think of the biology which binds women to the cyclical nature of time. This is in addition to the way all humans live in the daily round. A healthy adult woman lives month by month, experiencing loss each time. This is sufficiently slow and singular to mean that, at any and every moment, we know the present instance is part of the shifting pattern, is unique yet – in all likelihood – recurring. How we are feeling is part of the pattern as well. Each month is, potentially, life changing. Physically life changing, a process which offers us, simultaneously, fulfilment and threat. Menstruation is both loss and reprieve. The stakes are, as it were, aways high for women, and we live by this cycle. This, perhaps, makes us accept a pattern of perseverance which presents as cycles of apparent failure more easily. Does this make women better at persevering than men? I cannot say.
We also know that each cycle is not entirely repetition. Each time, we are also shifting along the time line. I have lived a little longer (and, yes, I may fear I am running out of time). I am not the same person; I am stronger (or weaker). What I must do is accept where I am and then choose – what to throw away and what to use. While that may seem to offer very little room to manoeuvre, I believe it is enough. Acceptance and then choice. The image in my mind is that of winnowing. This is where I am, this I will discard, this I can build on. This is what I have written, this I will discard, this I can build on.
Begin again. And persevere.
