If you have a writer in your life, now would be a great time to stop what you’re doing and go give them a hug. Then, back out of the room quietly because even though it looks like they are just sitting there… can’t you see they are working right now?!
Writing is tough. It is an inherently solitary endeavour. It usually requires a person to sit in one place and let their thoughts swirl unchecked in the hopes that a tendril of truth might be harvested from the jetstream. And said jetstream most often contains all magnitude of ancillary detritus whose “swirling past” can plunge the writer into an unhealthy level of introspection. Do you use a word like detritus and risk alienating your audience? Or, do you leave it in as a tiny prize for fellow readers/writers who find language well-spoken to be one of the greatest gifts of life? I think you know which side of the line I’ve chosen. Do you continue working on another piece about feeling sad, out of place and forgotten? Is it even possible to work on anything else when you do, in fact, feel sad, out of place and forgotten? Do you tackle another essay, or a poem, or should it be your screenplay that takes your time? Do you need to read it over just one more time, or get up off that chair before your bum becomes permanently flattened?
Searching for confidence
It is daunting to stare at a blank document and screw up the courage to muddy the page with your anemic thoughts. Minutes and sometimes hours can go by while you watch that cursor blink expectantly back at you. Ideas are captured and then rejected with startling speed. Distractions are plentiful and rigorously sought after. Many a sock drawer has been organized instead of finishing the piece of writing that I promised myself I would complete. Some days I cringe with embarrassment at having put myself “out there” in such a public way. Other days I am so engrossed in the act of writing that I remind myself that creation is the most powerful force on earth and that just in the act of doing, I am succeeding. Those are the good days.
the writer’s dilemma
Writers, and by extension true readers, are by nature a rather grumpy sort. We index high as introverts and spend inordinate amounts of time lost in thought, observing people to see what’s really there. We pine for the long form of things and are generally frustrated by today’s quick consumption media vehicles. We think words should be spelled correctly and physically recoil at the their/there/they’re offenses we encounter in day-to-day life. We believe in old-fashioned things like punctuation, wit, nuance, and earning a sigh of approval when a sentence lands perfectly or a character arc shows itself. We believe in the craft. Oh man, I sound like a total wanker don’t I? Sigh. Sorry/not sorry.
On the positive side, we can tell a good story, are usually up for a beer, and are often pre-ordained to low self-esteem and therefore accustomed to laughing at ourselves, which means we make excellent wingmen or roadtrip companions. Oh, except for that part where we sit in the corner and read books all the time.
enjoying the process
I’ve been working on a piece titled “I was bound to be a poet” that starts “I grew up the daughter of an Irishman’s son. Perhaps the poem could end here but further evidence has been gathered:” and it goes on to list the unique characteristics of my life that have pointed me down this writing path. I laugh every time I read that sentence, which is good because to carry something across the line takes a lot of time and emotional effort, so you truly want to like what you’re working on. I love the idea of this piece, but have had to focus on getting this site organized and working on my screenplay because I foolishly said out loud that I’d get a first draft complete by Christmas. Such a rookie move. However, it has been well documented that I only get moving when there is a looming deadline (writers are also chronic procrastinators). Anyway, if anyone is looking for me, I’ll be sitting here at this desk, looking at the birds out the window and imagining people like you reading my words. Hope you liked them.
2 Responses
“I grew up the daughter of an Irishman’s son. Perhaps the poem could end here but further evidence has been gathered” - LOVE it! Congrats on launching your new creative baby out into the world. Glad you're sharing your light.
Thanks Alison. So great to hear from you. I think of our Parisienne adventures often.