Editor’s note: The following post is being republished from Hedgebrook Writes!
Perhaps one condition of a capacity to imagine abundant possibilities is to then feel bereft at the intractability of executing even a small percentage of them. I sometimes have the wherewithal, within that bereavement, to entertain the theory that perhaps all those possibilities can funnel into whatever it is that I manage to do. Still, I feel a lag and then slow things down further by thinking everything takes me way too long.
Sometimes when this happens I try to steer into the spin by exaggerating the (perceived) torpor. If it’s taking me forever to finish an essay, well, what if I decide to work on it twice as slowly? The first time I tried this strategy, as is probably not a surprise, I finished the thing (in that case, an application) with startling alacrity. I short-circuited all the labor it was taking to have the constant stream of assessment of pace and then when that energy was freed up to do the actual work, everything came together readily.
The gleam of an heroic Act Such strange illumination
The Possible’s slow fuse is lit By the imagination. Emily Dickinson, #1687
image: p. 14 of Slug or Snail: An Assay on Velocity and Viscosity. (unpublished ms.) You can see more of this book, slowly, one page at a time here