In a lifetime of walking in the woods, plains, gullies,
mountains I have found that the body has no more vulnerable sense than being
lost. I don’t mean dangerously
lost where my life was in peril but totally misdirected knowing there was a
lifesaving log nine miles to the north.
If you’re already tired you don’t want to walk nine miles, much of it in
the dark. If you run into a tree
it doesn’t move. I usually have a
compass, also the sun or moon or stars.
It’s happened often enough that I don’t feel panic. I feel absolutely vulnerable and
recognize it’s the best state of mind for a writer whether in the woods or the
studio. Your mind feels a rush of
images and ideas. You have
acquired humility by accident.
Feeling bright-eyed, confident, and arrogant doesn’t do this
job unless you’re writing the memoir of a narcissist. You are far better off being lost in your work and writing
over your head. You don’t know
where you are as a point of view unless you go beyond yourself. It has been said that there is an
intense similarity in people’s biographies. It’s our dreams and visions that separate us. You don’t want to be writing unless you’re
giving your life to it. You should
make a practice of avoiding all affiliations that might distract you. After
fifty-five years of marriage it might occur to you it was the best idea of a
lifetime. The sanity of a good
marriage will enable you to get your work done.
Jim Harrison, from “Passacaglia for Staying Lost, an
Epilogue,” (The Ancient Minstrel)
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