Hunger of Writing
by John "JAM" Arthur Miller
I'm going through changes. People always go through changes, and so do writers. I'm reminded of the little story about eagles and eaglets.
Mama Eagle soars high above the cliffs over Snake River Canyon, the rabbit hanging from talons. Blood falls and the wind's currents buffet the drops, creating a spray that dissipates. Portions of the rabbit's blood light upon the river and land below, sometimes miles away, as Mama Eagle lands in the great nest set in a nook along the cliff. The next is formed from thorns and briars, but softened by the fluff of Mama Eagle's feathers, so that it has become a cozy and opulent home high above the earth. Eaglets open wide their beaks, as Mama Eagle tears strips and stuffs flesh into her babies.
Writers grow, hungry for more. They read and write and experiment, attending writer's conferences and workshops. And, as writers, they grow.
As the eaglets mature, feathers appear along their pinkish bodies. Curiosity leads them to the side of the great nest, and their eagle-eyes peer down the cliff. They see the rabbit, the fox, the fish swimming in water, the eyes of eaglets telescoping with glee at the prospect of when their own wings will catch air like Mama Eagle's do.. Above she circles, bringing a rattlesnake. The eaglets' beaks open wide, hungry, and their loud squawks cause Mama Eagle to shriek loudly.
The comfort zone of the nest is fine and dandy, but after a time the writer wishes to expand his horizons, soar on new winds. It's time to try something new. Flash fiction or short stories are no longer doing it for the writer; now his eyes light upon new markets, professional markets. Or upon novels and novellas. But the comfort zone is so nice and soft, and he has a group of writing friends who love him who tell him his work is okay, perhaps good.
He thinks he'll stay right where he is.
Sensing the time has come for her eaglets to stretch for their wings, Mama Eagle begins pulling the downy fluff from the next. It becomes prickly, uncomfortable, as the eaglets watch the down flutter on wind's currents. The eaglets look up at Mama Eagle with wide eyes, as the next prickles and grows more uncomfortable.
The last short story accepted by the writer was triumphant, a semi-paying publication. He is excited, but there is a level of discomfort, of disquiet, that makes his eyes light upon longer works. He considers writing a novel, trying something he hasn't done before. A sense of discomfort and disquiet fills him; he must try a new genre, a new style of writing for experimentation. He spreads his fingers like wings over the keyboard, lets his mind soar in new directions.
And he falls out of his comfort zone.
It's scary on the way down.
Some of the eaglets hop along the edge of the uncomfortable next. A few leap. They stretch forth their wings and fall, sometimes tumbling, but Mama Eagle soars beneath. They land upon her wings, their tiny talons clutching, as she lands back at the nest, back at the beginning.
The writer stares at his work and wonders, Why did I even try? This is crap! He crumbles the paper up and tosses it into the wastebasket. He tries to get back to his comfort zone, but he can't; the disquiet and uncomfortable feeling won't give him respite.
So he returns to the computer and stretches his fingers like wings again over the keyboard. His mind soars on the wings of imagination, and he tries again. And again.
… and again.
One eaglet stretches forth her wings just right, and the wind is soft but steady beneath her. Everything is just right-right time, right place-and she lifts high in the air. Mama Eagle flies beneath her, but she has no need of Mama Eagle now, as the eaglet lifts off into the sky, flying into the face of the sun.
The other eaglets watch from the nest. Some are jealous. Some squeak praise. One, inspired, hops to the edge. He stares down at the land and river far below.
It's time.
The writer polishes up his latest attempt. It's his best work ever. He knows this. It's good, actually. It's not Hemmingway or King or-well, it's just him. It's who he is as a person and a writer.
He sends it SASE to literary agents and publishers. He has friends who have sent out novels and it seems those novels are taking flight.
"It doesn't matter how many times the eaglets leap from the nest, or how many times they fail," his writing buddy from Australia tells him, "because they're eagles, and they know they're going to fly. That's what eagles do."
He puts his manuscript in the mailbox, because that's what writers do. And eventually, eventually
The sun shines upon a barren cliff over the Snake River Canyon. Wind wails along the nook where an old nest rests. It's empty.
High in the sky, soaring like gods and goddesses, are eagles.
Watch them fly.
