Monday 16 December 2024
The moment I finish grading the last student’s final exam (Finals Week begins this week), I will return to my Katyn manuscript. Although my slightly younger self would have liked to have had proofread the Summer 2024 revised draft this past September, I am glad I didn’t. I would have rushed through the proofreading to make an impossible, ignorant, and unnecessary point: to be finished for the sake of being finished.
Since August 2024, I wasn’t in the proper mindset to proofread the manuscript. Toward mid-September I finally realized what my family already knew: the creative process of writing and rewriting the Katyn manuscript had drained me. I was exhausted and worn out from completing the final revision.
Unlike the Summer 2023 euphoria I felt when I completed the first complete draft of the Katyn manuscript, I neither felt accomplishment nor satisfaction after the Summer 2024 rewriting. The post-2024 Summer mood was melancholy. I was irritable and unpleasant, too. The heightened intensity of the revision process left me feeling raw.
Did I deny that I felt these emotions of exhaustion? Didn’t I feel the stings of mental, emotional, and moral wounds? Or in my efforts to “man up”—in other words, not to deal with any of it—did I damage myself even more? My family saw these worrisome moods afflicting me during our August Iceland trip; I didn’t. And since I couldn’t see them, I didn’t realize how bad I was.
The act of writing a book is existentially demanding. How could writing a memoir about being interrogated by Russian state security officers not terrify me? How could writing a memoir about risking other people’s lives, including my own, by going to dangerous places to study about war crimes in the world not humble me? How could writing a memoir about diving into the intellectual and moral depths of the abyss not unnerve me? How could writing a memoir about Evil (not the lower-case “e” kind of evil) not torment me? How could writing a memoir about war crimes not wound me? How could writing a memoir not change me? —and how would it change me? I couldn’t imagine either. How could writing a memoir not change my family’s lives, too? King Arthur’s life?
A deep-water diver’s team warns him not to rise too quickly; otherwise, he will experience the “bends,” decompression sickness that results from the rapid change in pressure upon the diver’s body. Gas bubbles in the body can cause serious damage. In some cases, this barotrauma can kill the diver. Therefore, he must return to the surface slowly.
I insist upon calling what happened to me starting in August 2024, post-revision of the Katyn manuscript, as experiencing the “bends.” In fact, the psychological “bubbles” were likely collecting for some time. I didn’t take my time to ascend from those lower depths while composing and redrafting the Katyn manuscript. I didn’t return to the surface slowly. Reader, you might even ask, “how would a writer… any artist… safely swim back to the surface after intense creativity?” Remembering so many Artists who experienced nervous breakdowns and worse after completing their masterpieces, I would reply, “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out how to do it myself.”
I more than likely felt the “bends” when I wrote my Herman Melville dissertation, especially during the composition of my Moby-Dick chapter. I don’t believe in “luck,” so I won’t say I was “lucky” that I didn’t explode during the writing of my dissertation. Or did I have a small “diver’s incident” then, but downplayed the trauma because I defended my dissertation, received my doctorate, and started my career as a professor rather quickly, too? Did I distract myself from the mental injuries I sustained? Yes… all the above…
In August 2024, I so wanted to join my family on the surface. While below, I felt their tethering that connected them to me. I wasn’t loose or unbound, merely floating in the current. I thought I was safe. I did it! –I finished the revision! and so wanted to start the celebration with them. I so wanted to be out of the abyss! I so wanted to send the manuscript off to the publishing world.
The migraines that have for a lifetime plagued me…the ones that were gripping me during the Katyn manuscript revision… were they, are they, the warning signs of an impending disaster? Are they the result of my mind and body not adjusting to the abyss’ pressure points because I didn’t stop at my intellectual and creative deep dive rest or acclimation points? Are my migraines the “bends”? Most probably they are the consequences of the accumulating pressures.
I needed to recover from the act of writing a 638-page memoir and then of revising it into a 579-page memoir. I cut hundreds of pages but added hundreds of new ones. And I did so relatively quickly. Rapid descent and rapid ascent. The first ten or so blog entries of my The Revision Diaries testify to the intensity and speed of my rewriting. In hindsight, in those blogs, I was documenting my looming anxiety.
I needed to go on a sabbatical; I needed months to recover before moving on from the Katyn project. I didn’t take a conscious break to recover. I pushed onward even harder. If I hadn’t taken a hiatus from editing, revising, and proofreading my Herman Melville dissertation, I thought, why should I do so now with the Katyn manuscript? I denied that my existential condition was worrisome. I desperately tried to be even more disciplined with my schedule. I would curse myself for “running out of time,” for “being lazy,” for “getting distracted.” My battered ego would demand: “drink more electrolytes… eat more protein… (don’t forget your dark chocolate!) … listen to music.” This time, those remedies didn’t work.
Moreover, I thought, incorrectly, that the momentum that propelled me to complete the editing and revising of the second draft would have launched me into quick and immediate proofreading. I fooled myself—a failed wish fulfillment—believing such an impossible, unreasonable task could be done. Again, I achieved similar breakneck goals; and I performed them quite quickly. I realize now that I ignored the danger signals of burn out then and now. I believed in my own self-hype.
Even worse, I would guilt-trip myself for not proofreading the Katyn manuscript, which only aggravated my psychological fatigue. “You’re teaching the same material for the war class… you have time to proofread in September… certainly before the student assignments start coming in. You can finish the manuscript in a week… two tops,” I reproached myself, like an overly demanding, insensitive boss driving their employee beyond what should have been expected of them. I was my own worst enemy.
“You’re smarter than I was when I was your age… even right now, you’re smarter than me” I told my son, Nicholas, when he led the mid-September intervention to save me from myself. He saw the damage I had inflicted upon myself due to my creative endeavors, and he had had enough. I was being too hard on myself. He insisted I rest. And I listened.
There is a limit to “suffering for one’s art.” The line: “ah, my foes, and oh, my friends” that Edna St. Vincent Millay penned in “Figs from Thistles: First Fig” are ones I certainly have panted out while composing my Katyn memoir, foolishly admiring the conflagration I was burning myself in. Like Millay, I focused solely on the beauty of my writing, discounting the cost of that beauty on my soul. Remember the classic line: “My candle burns at both ends.” The light emitting from the inferno is warm, bright, even beautiful; after all, the fire is the Art, the poem, the memoir. For that bonfire to blaze brilliantly, passionately, the fuel to feed the inferno is, alas, the artists themselves. I learned the hard way the true meaning of Millay’s poem: burn out is real and it’s deadly. I was the candle quickly burning away.
After talking with Nicholas, I realized: writing the Katyn manuscript took me several years to write. That realization isn’t new or unique; it isn’t even surprising. However, the insight now took on a deeper resonance. I suffered from several years’ worth of self-doubt and writer’s block while drafting the Katyn manuscript. Again, the realization isn’t unexpected.
Diving back and forth, from the surface and then to the bottom, I repeated that madness far too long. My creative insecurity fomented a new anxiety, which heaped itself onto an older, equally threatening anxiety. I never addressed the latter one, and I tried to ignore the former. The weight of both finally crushed me. And Nicholas pulled me out before the existential avalanche completely covered me.
I can wait several weeks more to sign off on the Katyn manuscript proofreading. Waiting a bit more isn’t going to ruin my chances of publication. Dashing through the manuscript proofreading isn’t going to make it better because I hypothetically might be able to do so at breakneck speed. Doing so might make the revised manuscript worse. I need healing. I need to learn how to relax. I am finishing the (writing) race, but I need to finish it intact, not in pieces.
Proofreading mustn’t be taken for granted. Note the unintended irony: a writing and literature professor does not understand that patience is required of himself for each stage of his writing process. “Don’t rush the process,” I say often to my college students; however, the teacher sometimes needs to revisit his own lesson and relearn it himself. The professor should always be an attentive, diligent, and practicing student himself first before teaching the lesson to others.
I need to debunk some proofreading myths. Proofreading seems easy. The writer may seem “just” to be checking for spelling errors, noun/verb agreements, comma splices… you get the point. Proofreading is indeed making those corrections; on the other hand, proofreading isn’t necessarily “just” checking for typos and minor mistakes. As a writer is proofreading, you are looking for other structural things that you or your editor might have missed. This last stage of the writing process is as challenging as the other stages are. Don’t skim through the slow, unglamourous, and seemingly monotonous steps of proofreading.
The temptation to edit (to revert to more writing… which becomes rewriting) while proofreading one’s manuscript, in other words, to find thematic errors, quickly can make proofreading become editing, which in turn can become revision… Stop. Sometimes in that furious rush to finish, you start seeing problem areas in the draft that don’t exist. Therefore, rested eyes are needed for proofreading. Again, this is a lesson I teach my students. I couldn’t have performed this writing activity back in September.
When you’re tired, stop, and resist the urge to race mindlessly toward finishing your goals while finalizing your draft. A variation of a classroom lesson of mine. I wasn’t thinking. This semester, I was such an absentminded professor in my own creative and personal life.
Honestly, I had no real due date or deadline to meet to turn in my Katyn manuscript to someone. I arbitrarily decided that September would be the month I would finish everything. I knew from experience I couldn’t produce major writing work during the teaching semester. Why did I think this Fall 2024 would be any different? I wanted it to be different. Other overstretched and busy professors have done so, I persuaded myself. I can do that, too, I said, desperate to be proven right. I have done the impossible many times during past semesters, but this time, the demons I was trying to tame during the Katyn book writing process also had enough; they revolted. They attacked. Their response: Anxiety.
I interpreted what seemed like a giddy, entranced state of mind as my unconscious reeving me to finish; instead, I misunderstood everything. I didn’t interpret that state of mind as anxiety, as it truly was. Depending on the context, anxiety can slow or accelerate time—hence, my frustrated cry of: “I’m running out of time!” What I felt wasn’t excitement. I wasn’t starry-eyed by anticipation. Instead, I was experiencing anxiety. I was burnt-out. I needed a break from the manuscript. Proofreading can’t be conducted under such conditions.
I am learning mindfulness—the ability to detect the symptoms of burn out (among other emotional/psychological hazards) before they consume me. I am learning self-care. For example, I really like acupuncture. I am curious about Qigong, which is different than Tai chi. I count to ten… more often now. I have more breakfast get-togethers with my high school friends. I watch more basketball and football games with Nicholas. I send silly memes to my wife. I am improving my photography skills. I tried assembling a 1,000-piece jig-saw puzzle; however, this potential treatment only instigated more anxiety. Instead, I purchased a coloring book.
Mental healthcare professionals also recommend being creative: to keep a writing journal to relieve anxiety. I chuckle slightly because writing can be perilous, especially the kind of writing I sometimes compose. Therefore, Writer, beware!
My Katyn manuscript is the most intimate, personal writing I have done so far. A natural outgrowth of that intimacy is this blog, but that intimacy can in its own way provoke anxiety. I must combat it with mindfulness. I am not the same person I was when I started thinking, planning, and writing the Katyn manuscript. Not only am I significantly older but I am an entirely different teacher, writer, and human being than before Katyn. The Katyn manuscript was the most challenging and intimidating project I have ever embraced. Like my Herman Melville project, I sacrificed much in the creation of the Katyn manuscript—my family and closest friends, too, have travailed. I have lost dear ones along the way, too. Again, death has baptized my Katyn manuscript with sweat, tears, and blood as it did with my Melville dissertation. Forcing myself to proofread when I wasn’t ready would have disrespected everyone and everything.
And that last sentence reminds me that I haven’t yet finished writing my Acknowledgments Page. One step at a time may sound cliché; however, those words are profoundly wise ones.
Before, you, Reader, critique me, saying, “After writing this blog, he still doesn’t get it… he needs to rest after grading his students’ finals,” I counter, saying: “Yes, I will, and then after sufficient rest, I will proofread my Katyn manuscript.”