I was poking around over at ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
docbrite's journal yesterday, and saw that a few days ago she was talking about writers who want to be writers but who do not want to, well - you know, write or anything. It's one of the hazards of the job. There will always be a contingent of people out there who say to themselves, "Selves, if we had a big fat advance and plenty of time to sit on our asses, we could totally come up with something better than this crap, which somehow through the arbitrary roulette of publishing has found its way into a bookstore."
And good luck to them.
But people with that attitude are missing much of the point. Although I do in fact whinge endlessly about wishing I could quit my day job and write for a living (I do. I know I do.), I hope that you all are aware that this is luxury wish-fulfillment on my part -- and not some qualifying necessity for writing books. For while it would be delightful to lounge at home in my bunny slippers and sip coffee from a mug whilst lying in bed with my laptop all day, I have yet to encounter this reality for myself.
Four and Twenty Blackbirds was written (or started and about halfway completed, at least) while I was spending my days/nights doing the following: taking a full load of graduate coursework, preparing for my comprehensive exams to finally pin down that M.A., working as a graduate assistant for the head of the writing department at UTC, teaching two sessions of freshman comp II, and spending every afternoon working in the SACC* with thirty-five kindergartners and first-graders over at Spring Creek Elementary.
I bring this up not to brag about my magnificent multitasking abilities or play the horror story one-upmanship game, but to illustrate why I am not terribly worried about writing Not Flesh Nor Feathers (book #3) between now and June. True, between now and June I will be juggling this: getting married, moving across the country, finishing editorial on Wings to the Kingdom (book #2), and working full time at a day job at least part of that time.
I'm not looking forward to this flustercuck, but I'll manage it. I'll probably bitch and moan incessantly, tear out my hair, drink heavily, indulge in round after round of one-woman pity parties, swear to God it can't be done, and threaten to throw myself off a bridge ... but one way or another, I'll get it done. In fact, I'll worry about everything except the writing part.
The writing/storytelling part is integral. it's a given. It's a lifeline of sorts. When I'm facing down weeks upon weeks of 24 hour days that need to be 36 hour days, it's ... it's ... well, it's a small shovel. A hand trowel, if you will. I'm stuck at the bottom of a hole, see, and at the top of the hole there's a large dog kicking dirt down on me.
One little trowel-full at a time, I can prevent myself from being smothered. And during the down times when the dog gets tired and kicks dirt more slowly, I might even make some progress towards climbing out. It's not much progress, necessarily, and sometimes it's so imperceptible as to be totally disheartening. It feels like I'm just treading dirt.
But if I stop scooping, I wind up buried. I get so overwhelmed and depressed that I just want to lie there at the bottom of the hole and sulk, eating worms and picking mulch out of my teeth.
I guess I could have used the old metaphor about how a shark supposedly dies if it stops swimming, but I thought of the digging dog one first, so oh well. The point is this: writing is my trowel or my fins, however you'd prefer to look at it. It's not that it gets first obvious priority -- heaven knows that sometimes my writing progress can scarcely be measured by an impartial observer. But if I put it down altogether, I have a hard time motivating myself to do anything. If I can't write, why bother to get out of bed? Put on matching socks? Feed the cat?** If I don't write, then I'm not a writer. And if I'm not a writer, then hell -- what's the point?
And I am not for a moment suggesting that this is how it works for all writers everywhere, or even some writers somewhere. Just me. So much of my identity is tied up in the process and product that if I were to excise it from my life -- regardless of how packed that life is -- the rest of it slides to an ineffective autopilot, or it grinds to a functional halt.
* School Aged Child Care program --i.e., afterschool daycare on site.
** Ah. That would be another good one: I'm at the bottom of a giant cat bowl, and someone is pouring kibble down onto my head. All I've got at my immediate disposal is a spoon ... oh nevermind. I'm wrong. That's a terrible analogy, and so is the dog one. The shark one isn't any better. I'm talking out of my ass here, and not really landing the point I'm reaching for.
docbrite's journal yesterday, and saw that a few days ago she was talking about writers who want to be writers but who do not want to, well - you know, write or anything. It's one of the hazards of the job. There will always be a contingent of people out there who say to themselves, "Selves, if we had a big fat advance and plenty of time to sit on our asses, we could totally come up with something better than this crap, which somehow through the arbitrary roulette of publishing has found its way into a bookstore."And good luck to them.
But people with that attitude are missing much of the point. Although I do in fact whinge endlessly about wishing I could quit my day job and write for a living (I do. I know I do.), I hope that you all are aware that this is luxury wish-fulfillment on my part -- and not some qualifying necessity for writing books. For while it would be delightful to lounge at home in my bunny slippers and sip coffee from a mug whilst lying in bed with my laptop all day, I have yet to encounter this reality for myself.
Four and Twenty Blackbirds was written (or started and about halfway completed, at least) while I was spending my days/nights doing the following: taking a full load of graduate coursework, preparing for my comprehensive exams to finally pin down that M.A., working as a graduate assistant for the head of the writing department at UTC, teaching two sessions of freshman comp II, and spending every afternoon working in the SACC* with thirty-five kindergartners and first-graders over at Spring Creek Elementary.
I bring this up not to brag about my magnificent multitasking abilities or play the horror story one-upmanship game, but to illustrate why I am not terribly worried about writing Not Flesh Nor Feathers (book #3) between now and June. True, between now and June I will be juggling this: getting married, moving across the country, finishing editorial on Wings to the Kingdom (book #2), and working full time at a day job at least part of that time.
I'm not looking forward to this flustercuck, but I'll manage it. I'll probably bitch and moan incessantly, tear out my hair, drink heavily, indulge in round after round of one-woman pity parties, swear to God it can't be done, and threaten to throw myself off a bridge ... but one way or another, I'll get it done. In fact, I'll worry about everything except the writing part.
The writing/storytelling part is integral. it's a given. It's a lifeline of sorts. When I'm facing down weeks upon weeks of 24 hour days that need to be 36 hour days, it's ... it's ... well, it's a small shovel. A hand trowel, if you will. I'm stuck at the bottom of a hole, see, and at the top of the hole there's a large dog kicking dirt down on me.
One little trowel-full at a time, I can prevent myself from being smothered. And during the down times when the dog gets tired and kicks dirt more slowly, I might even make some progress towards climbing out. It's not much progress, necessarily, and sometimes it's so imperceptible as to be totally disheartening. It feels like I'm just treading dirt.
But if I stop scooping, I wind up buried. I get so overwhelmed and depressed that I just want to lie there at the bottom of the hole and sulk, eating worms and picking mulch out of my teeth.
I guess I could have used the old metaphor about how a shark supposedly dies if it stops swimming, but I thought of the digging dog one first, so oh well. The point is this: writing is my trowel or my fins, however you'd prefer to look at it. It's not that it gets first obvious priority -- heaven knows that sometimes my writing progress can scarcely be measured by an impartial observer. But if I put it down altogether, I have a hard time motivating myself to do anything. If I can't write, why bother to get out of bed? Put on matching socks? Feed the cat?** If I don't write, then I'm not a writer. And if I'm not a writer, then hell -- what's the point?
And I am not for a moment suggesting that this is how it works for all writers everywhere, or even some writers somewhere. Just me. So much of my identity is tied up in the process and product that if I were to excise it from my life -- regardless of how packed that life is -- the rest of it slides to an ineffective autopilot, or it grinds to a functional halt.
* School Aged Child Care program --i.e., afterschool daycare on site.
** Ah. That would be another good one: I'm at the bottom of a giant cat bowl, and someone is pouring kibble down onto my head. All I've got at my immediate disposal is a spoon ... oh nevermind. I'm wrong. That's a terrible analogy, and so is the dog one. The shark one isn't any better. I'm talking out of my ass here, and not really landing the point I'm reaching for.
Current Mood: pensive
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