“No dawdling or daydreaming,” warned the mother of a school
friend. “Go directly to school and come directly back home.”
Her words filled me with horror. To walk back and forth from
school and not stop to notice the cornstalks bursting through sheets of ice.
Not stand beneath a tree and puzzle at the cottony gray veils spreading between
branches—a witch’s shawl, I thought, but later learned it was deadly gypsy
moths. Not crouch over a brass key found on the sidewalk, and shiver, knowing
it was a clue dropped by a spy who was watching right now to see who dared pick
it up.
Every day was an adventure, a treasure hunt crammed with
mysterious characters and wondrous sights, and how on earth could I get to the
heart of the world if I didn’t dawdle, daydream, and step off the path? At
nine, I already knew I’d be a writer and accepted my destiny: to always be
late, to go off the clearly marked, brightly lit path, and to make it to my
destination via the most winding route imaginable.
Today, I see my friend’s mother’s warnings echoed and
transformed into time management software, templates and graphs offering shortcuts
that speed you through the creative process. No pain. No wasted minutes. No
blundering in the dark. Someone has already mapped your journey for you and
connected the dots.
It may not be fair, but I kind of blame Little Red Riding
Hood’s mother for our obsession with speeding to our destination while ignoring
the by-paths that tempt along the way. Go directly to Grandma’s house, she said.
Don’t go off the path or talk to the Wolf.
Even as a kid, I loathed this tale and its cheerless message:
Complete your mission and do not stop to smell the flowers or acknowledge the
danger that lurks at the side of the road.
It’s often tempting when we start a creative endeavor to
follow the safe, clearly marked path. Others have gone before you and left
behind signs and guideposts. You won’t get lost on that path, and you may get
to Grandma’s house in record time, like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, looking at his
watch and muttering, Hurry, hurry, there’s no time to waste.
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The forest of tall, narrow birch trees outside St. Petersburg—
trees like guards hiding secrets, maybe fairy tale
monsters.
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But you know what? I’m here to tell you that if you want to
truly create a book, song, painting or magic illusion from your soul, you need
to step off the bright-lit road and explore the deep dark woods. The roads are
not marked. No dots are connected, and you have to hack your way through in
order to create a path no one else has ever walked. Strange sounds accompany
you, unknown creatures howl, and vines wind around you. You will be alone for a
while. You will get lost. You will get scared. And you’ll hear the sound of
your own voice crying out in the wilderness. It may seem the sun will never
rise again and you’ll be lost forever.
That’s the time to gather your strength and courage for a
final effort. Our ancestors, who told fairy tales around a fire at night or in
a kitchen, understood one of the primary messages of the tales: a character
must undergo a sea-change, dramatic and profound, in order to become the hero
or heroine they are meant to be. Entering the woods—whatever form they take—is
like entering the deepest, darkest part of yourself. If you write, your
characters need to undertake this journey as well as you do. If you brave the
woods and face the dark terrors that haunt you—your personal Wolf—you will
glimpse light at the end of that long night.
And when you finally emerge from the woods, you may find yourself at
Grandma’s house after all.
Or a castle on a mountain.
Or ancient ruins by the sea.
Or your own backyard where it may appear you’ve been
doing nothing but lying on the grass, while in reality you conquered dragons,
saved (and taken) lives, discovered the cure to a dangerous virus, touched a
star.
I confess that my favorite versions of Red are the ones in
which she does it all: picks flowers, chats up the Wolf and gets his measure, and makes it to Grandma’s where she outwits him, and in the process manages to
clear the woods of that dangerous beast. All in a day’s work. And then she,
Grandma and the Huntsman settle down for tea and cookies. Now that’s a story
that warms my heart.
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
A note: In case you wonder, I do own a watch. Several months
ago, in preparation for a three and a half month sea voyage spanning three
continents, I bought a large, complicated watch that looked like it could do
everything but navigate the ship. Sadly, it was so complicated I never could
figure out how to change the time in each new port. Neither could anyone else.
I’ve since taken it off and set it on my bedside table. I feel much more
relaxed though it emits resentful beeps at unspecified times (5:39, 7:53) that
remind me of my friend’s mother. Dire warnings, I’m sure, which I’m happy to ignore.
