September 5, 2013 1 Comment
[I wrote this blog for VENTURE GALLERIES — Please check out their great site! – DRS}
Sometimes I wonder if I would be a writer if I lived—say—200 years ago. No keyboards, no grammar checkers, no font choices, no copy and paste—no Internet. Yikes! Of course, the ubiquitous distractions of modernity were nowhere to be found, so maybe I’d have more time for quiet thought. But then again, what about saving copies of our work? I remember reading about a Bible teacher who had labored long over a project to publish an edition of the English Bible with copious notes, diagrams, and a built-in concordance—features quite common today, but unheard of as the 19th century gave way to its successor. Then the notes were lost in shipping (literally lost—as in the ship sank) and he had to start over. Bummer.
I seldom long for the good old days, because they probably weren’t all that good, after all. Give me cell phones, Twitter, Facebook, my Mac Air, and a high-speed wireless signal, any day. But at the age of 57, I know that my capacity to learn new stuff is limited. I often call on my grandkids for tech-support. It’s cheap, usually just a promise to look the other way while they raid the forbidden snacks in the pantry.So when I started hearing and reading about a computer program for writers called Scrivener (and its companion, Scapple), I was both intrigued and intimidated. I saw the potential, but I dreaded the journey along the learning curve.
Over the past several months, I tried to figure it out. I’d spend an hour, or two, or three, and all it did was fuel a sense of frustration and personal irrelevance. But then I’d read another review, or some knucklehead Facebook “friend” would sing Scrivener’s praises, and I’d convince myself that I should give it one more try. Being a Christian, not to mention a minister, I try to avoid bad words, but I confess that many such words were making their way from brain toward tongue. I never used them, but I know that if someone nearby had written them down, I would have signed the document.
Then, in a moment of indescribable insight the breakthrough came. Like Archimedes the day he stepped into a bath and discovered the principle of “displacement,” I too exclaimed, “Eureka” (“I have found it”). I had crossed over from the darkness to the light, from ignorance to bliss, and to a new method. I may never use pen and paper again. All of a sudden, it all began to make sense.
How do such breakthroughs come—whether in learning something new, or in coming up with ideas for a writing project? I think they tend to come after a period of formative frustration. I think we most often must go through the valley before we can scale the mountain. But the reward of that moment of crystal clarity makes it all worth it.
Leo Szilard was a 35 year-old Hungarian theoretical physicist in London in 1933. And like most people in his profession during those days, he was wrestling with the problem and potential of the atom. One rainy afternoon, he was waiting for a light to change near the British Museum. When the light turned green, he began to walk. As he took his first step, everything changed. He later recalled that “time cracked open before him and he saw a way to the future.”
Admittedly, my breakthrough in learning a new computer program isn’t as significant as the splitting of the atom, but still—it’s a wonderful experience when the light comes on.