I’m always on the search for metaphors to think of the creative process with.
I recently was introduced to “wound wood”—a tree's response to damage, such as that caused by hail, branches dying, or anything that causes part of a tree to be killed or wounded.
Unlike us, trees have no method of healing any of its wood that dies. If we fall and skin a knee or break a bone, our bodies immediately go into healing mode with things like blood clotting and emergency cellular growth to make the flesh or bone whole again.
But when part of a tree dies, it dies forever. Trees don’t heal, per se; they instead focus on growth, wrapping the dead wood in new wood to isolate it from the tree.
The process is called “compartmentalization.” By surrounding the wound with new growth, the tree prevents diseases or hazardous insects from getting into the dead wood and infecting the tree.
If you’ve seen knotty, bulbous wood on a tree, or lumber with knots, that’s the “wound wood.”
I was introduced to “wound wood” in a Facebook post by my friend the arborist and poet Joe Lamb, who said, “Drawing from lessons learned over millions of years, a wounded tree surrounds the injury with dams of hardened wood. Wound-wood is stronger than normal wood. In many ways a tree is a better member of the community for its wounds.”
What an interesting concept—that a tree’s wounds make it a better member of the community, not a weaker one. The same should apply to humans, right?
What does this have to do with writing?
One might view life (and the writing life by extension) as a collection of wounds. Whether it’s the creative wound many writers receive from a disapproving parent or a discouraging teacher, or the dagger of a rejection by an agent or editor, writers are constantly walking through a minefield of rejection, deflecting explosions, trying to remain upright, and shouldering on (I hope).
The crucial thing to remember here is that no matter the rejections that wound you, an act of creation can surround the “death” you feel and prevent it from taking over, just as a tree’s new growth can protect a wound. Compartmentalization’s focus for a writer can take the form of wrapping a wound with new projects, new spirits, new ideas, new life.
I like this concept of “wounded wood” as a way to remain creative in any cesspool of negativity because of its focus on moving past the damage, of covering it up with life. It’s one way to shape the narrative of rejection for yourself, or use rejection as a way to fuel your creative growth.
Not to create a chip on your shoulder, but simply to view your creativity as a survival tool. The trees that are good at compartmentalization, like oaks, live longer than other trees, and the same thing goes for writers.
You might say our psyches are full of wound wood. And each bit of wound wood needs a new story to heal.
The next time you look at a large tree, think about the many wounds it’s received and “compartmentalized”—and how much it has grown just to cover the damage.
“As a writer often at a loss for words, I can’t find a category that fits gratitude for wound-wood,” said Joe Lamb in his Facebook post. “Words like religious, spiritual, psychological, are so misused that categorizing gratitude-wounds as such would do a disservice to the Tit Mouse living in the cavity the wound-wood frames and protects.
“Perhaps best to file wound-wood gratitude under ‘Undefinable.’ In my cerebral filing system, the Undefinable folder is breaking at the seams.”
“Undefinable,” as in mystery, I think, which is where our best words take us.
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Because a quote
“You can make something out of every unfinished story and every rejection if you work at it.”
—Tomi Adeyemi
On my no-word sabbatical some years ago I was walking through the woods and saw a tree that had been hit by lightning, split down the middle, but still growing a new truck out of the tragedy. My first thought was, "Now, there's an ugly tree."
A moment later, in the stillness of the forest, it occurred to me that I was the only one there judging.
Changed my life, and I dropped the judgment reflex I had.
Well, almost. I still have trouble with checked shirts and striped shorts.
Wound-wood, I couldn't help but thing of the covering up of dead matter with live matter as a sort of self-burial.
Also, woohoo, first to comment haha. Ah, the simple pleasures of life, like leaving the first comment on a post.