Writing Diary #2: Repetition

Most of my published writings are about fly-fishing.  I edit a fly-fishing quarterly and have a regular column.  The problem is, there are a limited number of things a person can say about fishing.  “I used this fly.  I went here.  I caught X number of this species of fish.”  Essentially that boils down most of the articles in most of the fly-fishing magazines.  I seldom read any of the mass-market fly fishing magazines anymore, and that’s one of the reasons.

Fly-fishing has a rich literature going back seven centuries.  Obviously the where-to-go, what-to-use writings are of little or no relevance anymore, but there are classics that endure.  At their root, they invariably deal with emotions:  Why do we fly fish?  How does doing so make us feel?  What do we learn from it that enriches our lives?  For fly-fishing is not an efficient way to fish, it’s a way to nourish the soul.  Process-oriented, not goal-oriented, to use current vernacular.  This is what I usually address when I write about fly-fishing:  The artistry of the experience.

Even so, there is a certain amount of repetition.  Trout are beautiful.  The insects they eat live very brief lives, which inevitably makes me reflect on the cycles of life, death, and beyond.  The pace of time while fishing is different than the normal human bustle.  The act of predation forges a different type of connection with the natural world than mere observation, yet fly-fishing allows the fish to be returned to its life unharmed.  These are themes I’ve explored many times, because they are the essence of how and why I fish, and how I think and feel while doing so.  I sometimes feel I have little more to say about fly-fishing, and I suppose that’s true.

Yet every experiential piece I write expresses these feelings a little differently, and I find new words to describe them.  A reader who is unmoved by one piece may find poetry in another that resonates with their own fly-fishing experiences, expresses their inner feelings in a way they’ve been unable to articulate.  Every once in a great while a reader e-mails me with a hesitant, usually awkwardly-written,  “Yeah.  That’s it.”  Or greets me at some fishing function with a hug and a reference to one article or another.  This is why I keep writing, for these moments when true communication occurs.

When teaching, it pays to present the same information from several different approaches, since students often grasp one and not the others.  It’s the same with writing.  I may not have much to say, but by saying it differently several times, I increase my chances of reaching every reader.  Those who love words for their own sake, the sheer loveliness of the English language and the way words combine to exquisite ends, will not mind the repetition.  They’ll see the brush strokes, not the subject matter, and appreciate it (or not) on its merits.  And there will be more instances of  “Yeah.  That’s it.”