“I started a new project,” said Dan, falling into the booth.
“Six,” said Ben quietly.
“Six,” said Dan.
“That’s six things you’re working on right now,” said Ben.
“One thing I’m working on,” said Dan. “Five things I’m letting rest.”
“How do you get anything finished?” asked Ben.
“Diligence?” said Dan. “Let me tell you about the new one.”
“What was the last thing you sent off?” asked Ben.
“To be published?” asked Dan.
Ben nodded.
Dan shook his head. “You know I’ve never done that,” he said.
“And why is that,” said Ben.
Dan sighed. They’d had this conversation before.
“When I think I have something worth publishing,” said Dan, “I will send it out. So far all my stuff is too rough, I haven’t had time to get it right.”
“So how often to you work on making things right?” asked Ben.
“What do you mean?” asked Dan.
“You say you need to get it right first,” said Ben. “Why aren’t you working on getting it right.”
Dan said, “You assume I’m not working on getting them right.”
“Well are you?” asked Ben.
“In my own way,” said Dan.
“Meaning?” asked Ben.
“Meaning I need a beer,” said Dan, getting up. Ben went with him. They each returned with a beer, and sat in silence for a moment.
“Since you’re not asking me about my new project,” said Dan, “I’m guessing to hear what I meant by, ‘in my own way’ just now.”
Ben looked at him.
Dan sighed.
“I haven’t thought clearly about it,” he said, “in a while. But here’s how it goes. I start on something, I make some headway. Then I get too excited, I work too hard, and I get burnt out.”
“Happens to everybody,” said Ben equably.
“So when I want to get started again,” said Dan, “it’s tough. I leave things sitting, and when I come back to them they’ve still got that burnt-out feeling all over them.”
“It’s a lousy feeling,” Ben nodded.
“More often than not,” said Dan, “it’s better to start over from scratch and re-write what I had, I’m usually able to make it better.”
They both drank for a while.
“But,” said Ben, “do you finish it when you start over, or do you get burnt out again?”
Dan pointed at him in agreement.
“When you say it’s better,” said Ben, “to start over again. Do you really mean it’s better, or do you mean it’s easier?”
Dan shrugged.
“I think it’s better,” he said. “I read some of the stuff I wrote before and it’s usually not up to par with what I’m writing now, it’s been a while.”
“Not up to par?” said Ben with an odd smile.
“You know what I mean,” said Dan.
“I’m not sure,” said Ben. “What’re you thinking when you say it?”
“What are you, my therapist?” asked Dan.
“I’m just curious,” said Ben.
“You don’t want to hear about my new project,” said Dan.
“Sure,” said Ben.
Dan was quiet. Ben sipped beer.
“You’re not going to tell me?” Ben said presently.
Dan scowled.
“I just mean,” he said, “that when I read the stuff I already wrote, all I see are things I could do better.”
“Uh huh,” said Ben encouragingly.
“So why should I keep tacking stuff onto the end of something,” said Dan, “when I know what I’m doing now is better than the start? It’ll be uneven, I’ll just have to rewrite the first part anyway.”
“It’s that stark?” said Ben.
Dan looked at him.
“How much of the old stuff do you read over?” asked Ben.
“What do you mean?” asked Dan.
“Well do you read the whole thing?” asked Ben.
Dan considered. “Not usually,” he said, but did not elaborate.
“Well do you read half?” Ben prompted.
“I read the first few pages,” said Dan. “I guess. It’s usually too lousy to get through, I get distracted.”
“Distracted,” said Ben.
“Yeah,” said Dan. “By all the things I’ve got wrong. It’s impossible to concentrate on the story when all you see are run-on sentences and pretentious word choices.”
“So let me ask you something,” said Ben.
“Shoot,” said Dan, finishing his beer and getting up.
Ben waited. Dan returned with two glasses, slid one to Ben.
“So let me ask you something,” Ben said again.
“Shoot,” said Dan without irony.
“You say that your old stuff is always lousy,” said Ben.
“When I go back to read it,” said Dan, “it’s not as good as I’d like.”
“But it doesn’t seem lousy when you’re writing it?” asked Ben.
“Not at first,” said Dan. “But eventually I get burnt out.”
“Right,” said Ben. “But you weren’t burnt out in the first few pages.”
Dan started to say something, closed his mouth, took a drink.
“Not generally,” he conceded.
Ben nodded.
“But,” Dan said, “it’s mainly lousy because I’ve gotten better since the last time I worked on it, and I just didn’t realize it before.”
Ben gave Dan a look.
“What?” said Dan. “It’s in black and white, I see it all the time. I see mistakes I wouldn’t make now, and they’re everywhere. So I start over and make a version that doesn’t have those mistakes.”
“Have you ever started a project over more than once?” asked Ben.
Dan took a sip of beer. “Of course,” he said.
“Which?” said Ben.
Dan hesitated.
“Well,” he said, “there’s the one, I mean, the main one, that I’ve been working on. You know, for a while.”
“Right,” said Ben. “What was the title?”
“It’s changed,” said Dan.
“So what is it now?” asked Ben, when Dan didn’t elaborate.
“I’ll tell you when it’s ready,” said Dan enigmatically.
Ben looked briefly at the ceiling.
“What was it called before?” he asked.
“The Titans of Renewal,” said Dan sheepishly.
“Right,” said Ben without emotion. “How many times have you started Titans over?”
Dan considered.
“Counting this last time,” he said, “something like five or six times.”
“And you re-read what you had before every time?” asked Ben.
“Sometimes,” said Dan. “The last time I started over because I got a new idea, so the old beginning got thrown out altogether, I didn’t have to re-write it.”
“But you generally re-read when you start over,” said Ben.
“Often,” said Dan. “I don’t always have to read everything over again, I have a pretty good memory for the ideas.”
“Just not the details,” said Ben.
“Huh?” said Dan.
“You only read the first few pages?” asked Ben.
“Usually,” said Dan. “What was that about details?”
“I was talking to a guy once,” said Ben without pause, “who used to walk ten miles every Saturday morning from his house to a little farm where they sold stuff in the summer.”
“We’re talking about this now?” said Dan.
“They sold strawberries I think,” said Ben, as if Dan had asked him about it, “and peaches and what not. So he’d get up at sunrise, and it would take him two or three hours each way. Five miles there, five miles back.”
“Go on,” said Dan, looking around the bar.
“He told me the walk was a funny thing,” said Ben, and paused for beer.
“How so,” said Dan. “Didn’t he have a car?”
“What country is this?” said Ben. “Of course he had a car.”
“How was the walk a funny thing?” asked Dan in a mechanical tone, his “a’ a long one for emphasis.
“He said,” said Ben, “every time he went through a couple different phases, and it always seemed like each part was his favorite.”
“How so,” said Dan.
“First,” said Ben, “he would get started and leave his house.”
“No way,” said Dan.
“And he said,” Ben went on, “that that was his favorite part. The sun was about to rise, or was just up, everything was cool and quiet, he could hear the bugs in the grass and the breeze, it was like everything was brand new.”
“I’ve heard legends of that time of day,” said Dan. “Maybe one day I’ll go outside when it’s happening, if I’m still awake.”
“You should go camping,” said Ben.
“I tried it,” said Dan. “There was nowhere to plug in the TV.”
“Anyway, so this guy,” said Ben, “he’d get to walking, and the sun would come up, and half an hour would go by, and an hour would go by, and he’d get to where walking was easier and less work.”
“Uh huh,” said Dan, contemplating his empty glass.
Ben stood, took it from him, went and got two beers. The bar was beginning to fill up, and it took a little while.
“And he said,” said Ben re-seating himself, “that that part was also his favorite, because it felt good to be walking.”
“I am riveted,” said Dan. “Tell me, did his right foot go forward after his left, or what?”
“I’m getting there,” said Ben. “And he said when he got home, he was tired and a little sore and very warm indoors, but that he felt great, and capable, and well.”
“Well what?” said Dan.
“Well water,” said Ben.
“What?” said Dan.
Ben laughed.
“So this new project,” said Dan irritably.
“He felt well,” said Ben. “He had a sense of well-being. You know, he was a little high.”
“My gym coach used to say,” said Dan, “running was a great natural high.”
“If you do it right,” said Ben.
“What a life these people live,” said Dan.
“At least this guy didn’t have to drink coffee,” said Ben.
“Nothing’s wrong with coffee,” said Dan.
“Sure,” said Ben. “Your heart’s going to beat forever. It has an infinite number of beats in it, what’s the harm of spending a few extra ones every morning?”
“I come here for two things,” said Dan, holding up his beer glass. “The list does not include health advice.”
“Point taken,” said Ben, taking a drink.
“So if I walk more,” said Dan, “I’ll write better?”
“I’m getting there,” said Ben. “A little while after this talk, I went for a five-mile walk, first thing in the morning, to see what it was all about.”
“Please tell me all about that,” said Dan.
“And what I realized,” said Ben, “is the guy left a few part out.”
“Like what?” said Dan. “Leg cramps?”
“You’re not far off,” said Ben. “I got the part about the very start, when everything felt new. It felt great to be out before the sun came up, like I was in complete control of the day. Like I’d gotten out in front of it and was the boss.”
“I could see that,” said Dan, who never awoke before it was necessary and may not have been able to rise at daybreak at gunpoint.
“But after I got going,” said Ben, “it got tough. The first feeling of something new and great wore off pretty quick, and about two miles in I started getting tired.”
“So you don’t walk every day,” said Dan. “I’m sure your friend is over that sort of thing by now.”
“Well I thought about going back,” said Ben, “but I realized I was about halfway, and that going back would be about the same, so I kept going. After a while, it got better again.”
“Uh huh,” said Dan, taking another drink.
“I stopped feeling tired,” said Ben. “Well, I was still tired, but I felt less like giving up, instead I felt good to keep going.”
“Which is what your friend said happened,” said Dan nodding.
“Right,” said Ben, “but he left out the part where he got tired, and his first favorite part was over, and had to keep going in order to get to that second favorite part.”
“Uh huh,” said Dan.
“The same goes for getting home,” said Ben. “It did feel good to get home again. I felt about as good as I do after a cup of coffee; not that everything would be alright, but that the question was an odd one, because I could just take care of anything that might matter.”
“Go on,” said Dan.
“The last part is worth knowing I think,” said Ben, “but I think it might be the sort of thing you need to learn for yourself.”
“Huh?” said Dan.
“But before I got home,” Ben went on, “it was tough to keep going. I got really tired, and super sore. I thought better of wearing jeans for one thing. Shorts next time. Anyway it was a long walk, and it felt great to finish, but the finishing of it was work.”
“You want to go for a walk sometime?” asked Dan tiredly.
“No,” said Ben. “I think you should, but that’s not the point.”
“I’m guessing this all has to do with me somehow,” said Dan.
“I think,” said Ben slowly, “that your favorite part of writing is the first part, where everything is new and exciting and you have total control.”
Dan considered. “I don’t buy it,” he said.
“Then,” Ben went on, “when you go one, things start getting familiar, and you have less control over the plot and characters because you’ve already made a bunch of decisions. It’s less about finding out new things as it is continuing and doing the work, and it gets tiring.”
“I didn’t say I get tired,” said Dan. “I said I got burnt out. I get too excited and don’t pace myself.”
“Have you ever tried pacing yourself?” asked Ben. “Maybe that might fix it.”
Dan made a face. “When I’m excited about a project,” he said, “I see little value in slowing myself down on purpose. I might as well use the energy when I have it.”
“So the energy would wear out,” said Ben, “whether you work too hard or not?”
“Huh?” asked Dan. “This is getting a little obscure for me.”
“All I’m saying,” said Ben, “is that it’s tough to keep working on something when it starts to get boring. You lose interest and want to move on to something else. But I think if you kept going, you might get to a point where it’s fun to keep going, instead of work.”
“Uh huh,” said Dan.
“Then you might not keep starting new projects all the time,” said Ben, “and you could keep working on getting stuff right.”
Dan sighed.
“Well, prove me wrong,” said Ben.
“Maybe I will,” said Dan. “Can I tell you about my new project?”
Ben smiled.
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