Dry Creek Cemetery in Boise, ID is a beautiful place to mourn and reflect. Nestled in the foothills west of town, the cemetery and the adjoining Idaho State Veterans Cemetery are an island of shaded greenery in a sea of scrub brush and suburbia. My family gathers there at various times in the year in memory of those who have passed.
One clear Spring day some years ago, as we stood graveside after a family funeral, my uncle commented on a passing jogger. I should mention that, owing to the cemetery’s proximity to Boise’s Ridge to Rivers trail system, joggers (and cyclists, hikers, and runners) are not out of place. We see them every time we’re at the cemetery, clad in their spandex and high-vis reflectors and hydration packs and short-brimmed hats and trail running shoes. These folks, out enjoying nature as much as is humanly possible while running for no other reason than to enjoy nature and get exercise, have never been disruptive. Ever. Yet their contrast is obvious, and was especially so on that day when our assemblage wore suits and ties, dresses and skirts.
My uncle commented on the jogger’s experience, rather than his presence. The jogger shared our location, breathed the same clean air, and bathed in the same early afternoon sunlight that we did, yet I can’t imagine his memory of those few seconds could contrast more with mine.
Was he thinking about the tasks he needed to complete at work later that day? Was he wondering if he brought enough water with him? Was he listening to a podcast? Or his running playlist? Did he even notice us? Could he recollect that scene? Or would it blur together with memories of every other time he’d taken that route? Was it a good run? Was he happy? On a runner’s high?
Meanwhile, my family and I sorrowed, wept, and wondered at the departed. We grieved in our own way, some with hints of anger, others with startled disbelief, and still others with unrestrained tears. The gravity of our heavy hearts drew us together around the casket. I wonder if we lingered to forestall the interment. So things wouldn’t be so…final, our deeply held religion notwithstanding.
To sum up, that jogger and I experienced that moment in completely different ways, despite our shared surroundings.
I often think about my uncle’s observation when I sit down to write.
At times I mire myself in a perspective rut where I am only able to see the plot, setting and/or characters through a single lens. These quagmires sneak up on me because the scenery along the way morphs with the tale, but the net result is always the same. Sometimes I live in denial well after I’m unable to move the narrative an inch.
Another curious phenomenon accompanies these events: I fall in love with the mud in which I’m stuck. It’s easy, comforting even, to enjoy each snappy one-liner, to marvel at the individual beauty of a sentence on its own, and smirk at the charming interactions between characters, but just as easy to ignore the truth that those individual components collected around my feet and filled the rims of my cart and locked me fast in the mire of my authorial mishap.
In the end, the solution is simple: the delete key.
Delete the passage and start over. The wonderful thing about writing fiction is that the resultant creation, which may (or may not) be beautiful, is in my complete control. I can, with very little effort, levitate from the muck and with a sweep of my hand make it all go away. This, in contrast with that day ten years ago in the cemetery, which I would happily rewrite but cannot.
Pressing the delete key liberates me to see the scene from a new perspective. What are the experiences of the other characters in the scene? Who, besides the listed characters, might also observe the scene? What animal, or inanimate object? Or how might the characters shift their perspective to alter the telling?
Sometimes I write from a new point of view, and the paragraph, scene, or chapter undergoes dramatic alterations. At other times, especially if I let a little time pass, the perspective that changes is my own, and I can reform the work in such a way that dries the mud, knocks my shoes clean, and allows me to move forward unencumbered.
The trick, I think, is willingness to wield the delete key. Wish me luck.
