Putting The Octopus To Bed

So long as the words sit in front of me, I will keep picking at them. I am like an overbearing stage mom fussing over her daughter five seconds before the pageant starts. She is waving me off, but I can still see lint on her leotard, a stray hair sticking out from her bun, a smidge of lipstick on her teeth. 

I’ve read this manuscript so many times, I could practically type it fresh from memory. I have taken everyone’s edits—my publisher, my mastermind group, my beta readers, the two extra friends I hired—holding their notes up to each chapter, examining my own sentences with a magnifying glass. Oh, yes, okay, I see it now. Yes, you’re right, this part needs work. 

Then I come up for air, let the words rest, make space for the feedback to swirl in my head for a day or two. Deep breath, back into the abyss I go, diving to the bottom of the ocean sweeping my hands along the sand to see what other problems I can find.

***

Honestly? I could work on this book for ten more years. 

I’m already thinking of everything I didn’t say, like when you leave a party and replay that one awkward conversation on a loop. I wish I would have said this. I should have said that. 

In the final hour of editing, I begin to think of more ideas, more chapter titles, more parallels between motherhood and creativity I did not so much as mention. 

How is that possible? How am I not empty by now?

My friend Katie tells me, “Ash, you could have written a different book, absolutely. But you could not have written a better book.” 

I want to believe her. 

***

Anne Lamott likens finishing a final draft to putting an octopus to bed: “You get a bunch of the octopus’s arms neatly tucked under the covers—that is, you’ve come up with a plot, resolved the conflict between the two main characters, gotten the tone down pat—but two arms are still flailing about.” 

This is where I am, getting the last few arms tucked in: rewriting my first chapter, adding a whole vignette to the last, re-ordering chapter 17.

The room begins to calm. I can feel my own eyelids getting heavy. I slip myself into pajamas, wash my face, get ready to turn off the lights and—

Another tentacle slips out from the sheets. 

***

I pull up an old newsletter from Steph Smith, titled “How Do You Know When Your Work Is Ready?” 

She asks three thoughtful questions:

Are the borders on this project where they need to be? Are you genuinely advancing your work, or are you at a point where you’re just tinkering? Are you experiencing a creative hang-up, or are you holding back out of a desire for control?

Then she writes, “I say this with love: no good art is created from a clenched fist. The way of the writer is trust and release.”

I consider how my own book ends:

Chapter 18: Open Hands. 

Chapter 19: Trust Fall.

Steph might be onto something. 

***

On the final read-through, I am simply skimming. My finger stays on the down arrow, double checking that every citation contains a page number. 

And even though I am flying through the pages at this point, I cannot help myself from making the occasional pitstop. Brakes screech. Wait, stop, back it up. Those two sentences should be flip-flopped. Change that word. Delete that line. 

Are you genuinely advancing your work, or are you at a point where you’re just tinkering?

***

Toward the end, I cut a line from chapter 14, and am still thinking about it days later. For the past two weeks, I’ve prayed over and over: Lord give me eyes to see and ears to hear, anything that needs to be changed. 

Seven minutes before I turn in the manuscript, I add the line back in. 

***

When I first heard my word count for this book—55,000 words—I felt like I was standing at the bottom of a mountain, looking up in equal parts awe and terror, knowing I was expected to climb to the very top.

Little did I know, I would go on to write far more than 55,000 words. Little did I know, I’d go on to create an extra “darlings” document to accompany each chapter, where I’d paste thousands and thousands of words I ruthlessly sliced from the final drafts with a butcher knife. 

A few days ago, in chapter 18, I noticed a point of disconnect. Two paragraphs barely held together by scotch tape, where they should have been bonded with glue.

I sat there, drumming my fingers along the desk, staring at the wall. Suddenly I had an inkling of recollection. I went into my Google drive and typed a phrase into the search bar, a puzzle piece that might fit—if I saved it.

The first result?

“Chapter 18 Darlings” 

There it was, sitting in the recycling bin. The answer, the puzzle piece, the glue. Lord give me eyes to see and ears to hear.

Copy. Paste. Another octopus leg tucked in. 

***

The final week of book edits are accompanied by a surprising amount of tears. I feel emotional and fragile, not quite sure how to name my feelings. I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I am afraid this book is not as good as it could be. I am proud of what I’ve written. I am worried I haven’t done enough. 

Back and forth I go, highs and lows, peace and panic. 

***

I started writing this book on January 27, 2020. 

Exactly one week later, on February 3rd, the US declared a Public Health Emergency.

There is so much grief to recall from this time: death, war, political chaos. Even now, I watch the daily news in horror. Ukraine. “Freedom” convoys en route to the Capitol. Just last week, in my city, a father shot his three daughters and then himself. It feels like there’s tragedy everywhere, one catastrophe after another, falling like dominos. 

I do not know how to reconcile these things—that in the midst of a world on fire, I wrote a book. 

Steph Smith considers writing a liturgical form of call and response. Anne Lamott says when we write the clearest, truest words we can, they might help someone, they might be part of the solution. She says our stories can shine on paper like little lighthouses. 
Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.

I do not have solutions for war. I do not know how to fix famine, or heartache, or cancer. I only know how to pray, how to make stories shine on paper, how to participate in call and response. 

***

My boys rarely sleep with all of their covers on. There’s always a loose leg, a free foot, some part of them sticking out from their dinosaur bedspreads. When they were little, I would sometimes go into their rooms and tuck them back in, especially when the weather was cold. 

I never do that anymore. They sleep fine either way.

I wish I could tell you I got all eight of the tentacles tucked in, but I’m not sure I did. At some point, though, I have to let it be. I have to surrender, to let go. I gave this book my whole heart, my best effort, my richest offering. The alabaster jar is empty.

Tonight my boys are fast asleep, tangled halfway in and out of their covers. It’s time for the octopus to go to bed, too.

I turn off the light, and say good night.