Self-Editing in Six Parts
- hbkiser
- Apr 13
- 3 min read
Much to my mother's dismay, I have a historically black thumb when it comes to plants. I've killed everlasting begonias. I've under-watered any number of succulents. I've failed to grow two varieties of guaranteed-to-grow lettuce.
About 15 months ago, I acquired several plants from a neighbor who was moving. I figured, hey, it doesn't hurt to try, right?
One of the plants was a very shabby orchid.
Now you may know that orchids basically look dead when they aren't actively blooming — all straw-like roots and a dry stick-looking stem/stalk. But this orchid was honestly at death's door, the botanical Grim Reaper swishing his scythe in glee nearby. The leaves were yellow and brown, the stalk brown and bent almost in half, the roots brittle, thin, and flaky. The neighbor had it in a flimsy clear plastic cup, mashed on the bottom so the whole plant tilted about 40 degrees.
They'd had it for two years and had never had a bloom. Little wonder.
I plopped the plant into another pot, cup and all, and packed new soil around it. I trimmed off the worst of the roots and cut the stem just above the first unbent node. Every couple of weeks, I moved it to a new location depending on the best angle for sun. Sometimes it lived under a plant light. A drink of water here and there, and many encouraging words.
Check out the fruit of my labor below! A gorgeous gift.
(If you look closely, you can see the original plastic cup where new roots poked through.)
Turns out, my black thumb is not incurable. Until now, I simply hadn't invested my faith and interest to the appropriate degree.
What in the world does this have to do with editing, you wonder?
Well, of course, I'm using the orchid metaphorically. I didn't Google "how to take care of an orchid" or "best soil conditions" or "how much should I water" in the hopes that some expert somewhere could diagnose and treat my specific plant. Instead, I went by instinct only, small pockets of trial and error, new angles, daily attention. All with no feedback except what I could sense to be true by regular observation of the plant itself.
And because I took time nearly every day (I did leave the house every once in a while!) to care for this plant, believing in the promise of what it could become under the right circumstances and making adjustments based on my careful and consistent efforts toward my hopeful goal, I have been rewarded mightily!
This, friend, is what self-editing entails.
Define your goal with honesty. What do you want as the outcome?
Hold that vision. Believe in the possibility.
Actively spend time mentally engaged with your project.
Adjust any aspect of your practice or your tools. Just try it!
Be patient but nimble. Not everything you try will work.
Consistency, consistency, consistency.
Your project will tell you what it most needs — if you listen. Consider it a living being. You're the benevolent creator and the tinker, not a taskmaster ready to whip it into submission to your (perhaps quite flawed) will.
I've worked on pieces for years. In fact, I'm in the process of one of them now, eight years and counting. Yes, I've been frustrated near to despair at times. But each new day presents the chance to get the light just right.
