I am writing my first FO° Wednesday from sunny Southern California. So far, we’ve avoided the heat waves plaguing the rest of the country — a welcome benefit of living near the coast. However, it’s only a matter of time before fall comes and we lose the beautiful weather to intense autumn heat. In the meantime, I can count on the temperature to be perfect enough to sit in my grandparents’s garden, tying flies for fly fishing. This kind of fishing is a technique that uses lures that mimic various types of bugs.

I have learned many lessons during my time at Fair Observer — it will be two years this November — but none more important than the ones I’ve picked up while doing this craft. Patience, persistence and precision: nothing in my arsenal of editing experience comes close to matching the advantages of understanding these three life lessons. 

My grandfather is a wrestling coach. He worked far past his retirement to continue coaching high school students. During his last few years of coaching, he built up a girls’s wrestling team at the local high school. Those girls adored him — they always told me how lucky I was to have him as my grandfather. I am lucky, I know that. Not just because he is a kind man, but also because of what I’ve learned from him. 

Teaching high schoolers requires a level of patience not many have (I know this because I was a high schooler once). My grandfather has it. When he’s not teaching students, you can expect to find him using that endless patience to go fly fishing. He often uses the flies he ties himself. As a lover of embroidery, I’ve always been fascinated with the craft.

I asked him to teach me. He was more than happy to. Yet, while I was tying that fateful first fly, he remained quiet. He let me make mistakes — encouraged me to make them, even, by not jumping to correct me. It takes a lot of patience to allow someone the room to grow. It takes even more patience to allow yourself the room to grow.

It’s going to be a long time before I feel confident in both of my crafts — my flies and my editing. Maybe that time will never come. What I do know is that patience doesn’t only apply to constant practice. Patience means allowing yourself the space to develop, to make mistakes and to grow. This leads us to the second — though not at all lesser — lesson. 

I began the fly-tying ritual two months ago. Every Friday, you can find me bent over a vise, squinting at a small hook and occasionally cursing when my thread breaks. There are always all sorts of materials scattered over my grandmother’s white tablecloth: duck biots, peacock herls, dubbing and thread. Even clear nail polish! Between my grandfather and me, we make quite a mess.

My first fly, a pheasant tail nymph, was an absolute failure. I covered up the hook eye with pheasant tail fibers, making it virtually unusable. The second one came out the same, but this time, it was far too fat to fish with. Each time, I banged my head against the table and asked my grandfather what I had done wrong. He would just shrug.

“You can either take it apart,” he said, “or do it again.” 

I always choose to do it again. So far, I’ve tied six fly varieties, but I always go back to that pheasant tail nymph. It gets better and better each time. My grandfather once said that only after tying a fly over 50 times can you begin to think of mastering it.

A beadhead prince nymph fly is usually used to attract trout.

Some may ask what the point of such a hobby is if the results are spotty at best. Clearly, it isn’t about catching a consistent amount of fish to eat. (My grandmother jokes that if it’s me who goes out fishing for dinner, she’ll know to buy beef.) The same may be asked about editing. If your name isn’t on the piece, then what’s the point of pouring your time and attention into an article?

That’s a silly question, in my opinion. What my grandfather said is a joke, of course, but there’s truth to it. The goal, the trophy, the prize — whatever you want to call it — isn’t the end result. It’s the very act itself. The prize is the time and attention you pour into something you enjoy. While a polished and published article may give me a sense of satisfaction, the real enjoyment comes from picking it apart.

Speaking of picking things apart, fly-tying is a precise craft. Tension too tight? Your thread can break. Wire too short? You’ll have to unwind everything and start again. I’ve always been detail-oriented, but this hobby has been pushing the boundaries of my ability to focus on several details at once. Not to mention the thousands of fly recipes there are to learn. Specific fish like specific flies, and if you don’t have what they want, rest assured, they won’t bite.

The most experienced fly fishers will bring their vise and materials to the fishing spot, see what’s being caught and tie the proper fly right there and then. Being good at tying flies isn’t only about mastering techniques. It’s also about knowing what materials to use and when. 

Much is the same for editing. Not every piece is the same; not every author is identical. Smothering an author’s unique voice by refusing to adapt means authors won’t bite. This is what precision is: not by merely having an eye for detail, but understanding how to tailor the materials you have on hand to fit the situation.

Until I understand this and the other lessons inside and out, you can still find me in that garden. I’ll probably be there for a while.