“Writing must be separate from editing, and if you try to do both at the same time nothing will get done.”
~Ann Patchett
Dear Friends,
It’s every Tuesday morning in our neighborhood, somewhere near 7: the churn of the garbage truck coming down the street; the deep shudder as the truck’s claw shakes the bins’ contents into its open mouth. And every other Tuesday we get the recycling truck, too, with the slide and shatter of cans and glass.
I love garbage day. I don’t mind it a bit if the trucks wake me up. What a privilege it is (I think this to myself, eyes closed and head nestled against my pillow) to have people come and carry the garbage away!
All we have to do is roll the bins up to the curb. The trucks come and carry it off— all of it! Smelly diapers. Used tissues. The wax-lined paper that ferried home the fish.
During the pandemic, it was a different story. Garbage and recycling retrieval were (mercifully) the same, but we weren’t going anywhere— which meant that all of our garbage stayed home. No eating out, no pitching our Chick fil A wrappers into the Chick fil A garbage cans at the Chick fil A. Or anything, anywhere else, for that matter.
In those earliest pandemic days of doubts, I kept a wary eye on our bins. They simply filled faster when we were at home all the time. Extraordinary concerns abounded in the world— but also, what would happen if they stopped coming for the garbage altogether?
We all know that garbage collection is just part of what’s commonly known as infrastructure, but I’m not sure that most of us give infrastructure much thought. For the longest time, it only came to my mind when it was hassle. We’ve all been there, right? He appears out of nowhere: the hatted construction worker holding a stop sign. I had a slim chance of being on time, and now I have nothing to do but watch that chance dissolve in an unanticipated line of cars and one-way traffic.
But good infrastructure is worth thinking about otherwise and at other times, because good infrastructure is really quite glorious.
Our son Will, age 10, in Kware, Nairobi.
In 2007, our family spent some time in Kenya and Tanzania, both of which are probably classified, in some ways, anyway, as “developing nations.” To my view, they were certainly modern and very beautiful. But I do recall a near-constant smell of burning trash in Nairobi. And in the Korogocho and Kware slums, garbage gathered in neglected corners and sliding heaps.
And then there were the roads. Main thoroughfares were paved and marked by traffic signals, but reaching a village on the outskirts was a different enterprise. I remember bracing myself against the window as our matatu pitched and bounced over the rutted road. At times we were tipped at what felt like very precarious angles. I swore I’d never again complain about delays due to re-paving.
Infrastructure. What a gift it is! Let’s think on it for a minute: water pouring from the faucet when you open the tap. Police guiding traffic to enable a triathlon. The dotted yellow line that tells you it’s safe to pass. Cherry-pickers lining the road to trim branches away from power lines. Power lines.
It’s a humble thing, something we don’t tend to notice it until it goes wrong. But how incredibly helpful it is! And that’s its job. Infrastructure is simply enablement. It gets you to work on time. Or it allows you to work from home.
A few weeks ago we were visiting our daughter in Seattle. On our last morning there, we met Emma and her boyfriend for brunch in a different part of town. Google was helping us get there, and we kept an eye on the time because our next appointment was with the airplane, but we had to return our rental car first. And wouldn’t you know, we suddenly found ourselves sitting in a long line of traffic. This didn’t feel good.
Maybe you know that Seattle is a city with plenty of water. In the first place, it’s pressed up against Puget Sound. But then it also encompasses Lake Union and Lake Washington. We were a minute or two figuring out what was going on: the bridge ahead of us was raised to let a boat through. So frustrating.
But also: the bridge ahead of us was raised to let a boat through. So amazing.
More on infrastructure in a moment, but first
News and other things to share
some weeks ago, I told you about my job creating (and then teaching!) new theology curricula for a local high school. I’m working with a colleague on this project and am enjoying it so much. One element we hope to include in the theology courses is the work of some Church Fathers. Interested in the Church Fathers? Of course you are. Here, check out Anselm and Athanasius.
I’m looking forward to the Apologetics Conference at Palm Beach Atlantic University in October, where I’ll be speaking on “The Human Imagination, Creativity, and Apologetics.” In anticipation, I’ve been listening to some episodes of season 3 of The Eudo Podcast, particularly conversations about the imagination. Highly recommend!
During the entire month of June, my books, Wait: Thoughts and Practice in Waiting on God and Healing Maddie Brees, will be available for $0.99 on Amazon Kindle. Go get ‘em!
“If one waits for the right time to come before writing, the right time never comes.”
~James Russell Lowell
Today I’m thinking about other kinds of infrastructure: those elements that enable my work.
I’m guessing that every job has them, but maybe it takes a minute to realize what they are. In my work as a writer, I wouldn’t claim the following as infrastructure: a love of books or stories, a love for words. These are helpful, but they don’t help me get any work done, and they might just as well be features of a person who loves to read as one who loves to write.
No, I’ve learned that the infrastructure for writing is both more practical and mental than that. For example, I’m helped by quiet, by good lighting, by excellent haptics in keyboard and pen. By a chair I don’t have to pay attention to.
And I’m helped, too, by the knowledge— every time I sit down to write— that I’m not going to finish my task today. If I’m writing an essay; if I’m writing a book; even if I’m writing a newsletter, it’s best for me to know that I’m not going to finish it today. Good writing takes lots and lots of time, lots of days. And when you think about it, you only finish a given task once. Chances are today is not the day.
“The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.”
~Mary Heaton Vorse
Recently I was given another tip that works as infrastructure for me, and that’s the twenty-three minute rule. It comes from something called the Pomodoro Technique, but if you check out that link, you’ll see that the rule I describe here is a modification. The idea is this: I can definitely focus on writing for twenty-three minutes. For that period of time, I can ignore my phone (if it’s even nearby) and the noises it makes. I can wait to go to the bathroom. I can avoid getting up to stretch. When the timer goes off after 23 minutes, I can decide if I want to keep working, or if I want to stretch/check my phone/go for a walk/whathaveyou.
Twenty-three minutes is reasonable. In that amount of time, I can focus and get into something. I can get some good sentences— even some paragraphs— down. But twenty-three minutes isn’t thirty minutes. It isn’t even twenty-five. Twenty-three minutes is a helpful marker. It’s just long enough.
It’s good infrastructure.
Words, words, words
Last time around, I invited you to share the name of a place that reminds you of home or an unusual name for a place near your home. Thank you so much for the many responses! I got a lot of words (which I love, obviously), some of which are difficult to pronounce.
But I’m sharing this that came from S with you, because I think it’s really good writing:
Clague Park. Where I braved the tallest slide ever and climbed up into the rocket. Biked by myself to the pool for lessons (sometimes going through the back neighborhoods and sometimes on Hilliard Road). Watched my mom play tennis, and strolled around the pond (and brought a hurt duck home once). Watched fire works from a blanket while holding our shaking dog, Rusty. Picked wildflowers on right field on the ponytail league. Biked through on family rides after dinner, and drove through later when practicing to get my license.
This time around, please respond with a word you remember learning. And if you’re up for it, tell me about how you learned it.
I definitely want to know!
Meanwhile, I’m guessing what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I spent an entire newsletter writing about infrastructure. True. But remember that “Saints and Poets” is all about paying attention, and infrastructure is worth paying attention to. As is this poem.
Days pass when I forget the mystery Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; cap and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, O Lord, Creator, Hallowed One, You still, hour by hour, sustain it. ~Denise Levertov
Friends, thank you so much for reading. Your doing so actually means a lot to me. And if you’d share this with someone who’d like it, that would mean a lot to me to.
With joy,
Rebecca
And Quay. Strangely, as you probably know, pronounced "key." Also learned due to travel, to here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circular_Quay
Queue. Learned during a trip to England in 1991, before it caught on in America.