I started a new book the other day.
I was reading it for a class assignment, so I already knew a bit about the author and story.
I cozied up on my bed and took as much joy as I could out of eventually getting a good grade.
I see the Authors note: why read it? Well, it's only two pages... so why not.
"This is a work of fiction."
No kidding.
"Its principal characters are pure inventions with no relations on this earth, as far as I know."
A bit funny.
"But the Congo in which I placed them is genuine. The historical figures and events described here are as real as I could render them with the help of recorded history, in all its fascinating variations."
Ok. Cool, I guess.
"I thank Virginia and Wendell Kingsolver...and Steven Hopp, Emma Hardest, Frances Goldin, Terry Karten, Sydelle Kramer, and Lillian Lent."
Alright but I don't know these people so I have a hard time caring.
"I spent nearly thirty years waiting for the wisdom and maturity to write this book. That I've now written it is proof of neither of those things, but of the endless encouragement, unconditional faith, insomnolent conversation, and piles of arcane reference books delivered always just in the nick of time by my extraordinary husband."
Modesty. I like it. And confirmation that this book may hold more substance than most New York Times Bestsellers. Don't think the reference to an extraordinary husband slipped my notice either.
"Thanks, Steven, for teaching me it's no use waiting for things that only appear at a distance, and for believing a spirit of adventure will usually suffice."
Ah, here is a gem.
Tears smarted in my eyes, my breath caught, and my mind found rest in the delightful experience of a truth recognized, and a truth shared.
That's what I lack as a writer. Wisdom and maturity. And a few other things. These things can be developed. Through purposeful study, research, and thought a person can obtain a depth of knowledge on a specific topic, which allows them to accurately see and analyze something for what it is. But, more often I've realized a person can narrow in and research a topic to death, and still lack maturity and wisdom. It seems we come across those two things in ways we would've never realized, or in ways that are indirectly related, and at first don't seem related at all.
In order to have real things to write about, you need to have contact with the world. You need to engage in it -- associate with minds, authors, and topics that may have nothing to do with what you want to write about. I did not understand a few years ago, how everything is connected -- that wisdom comes not in narrowing in, but in branching out. It doesn't matter how deep you can dig -- how much depth you seem to have in a particular topic -- depth means nothing if there is no context to put the knowledge in. This is why we often associate ancients with wisdom. The more years a person sees, the more likely they are to obtain this universality of knowledge that can be applied to specific issues.
Maturity comes through distasteful circumstances. These often come simply as we live life, even if we don't want them to. The harsh judgments we cast on others tend to fade as we experience a similar circumstance. The hope is that as we sense the world around us, the keener our minds become, and more understanding. Because we've been in it, or we've seen what it looks like when someone has been in it, there are fewer surface-level conceptions -- an ability to see when someone has missed the whole point.
As our author says, these things appear only at a distance. Then, when we feel like we've done what we can to develop the wisdom and maturity, we believe a spirit of adventure will usually suffice.
How grateful I am that when all is said and done, enthusiasm can trump accuracy!
