"It makes me so uncomfortable for them. If they're talking about a plot idea, I feel the idea is probably going to evaporate. I want to almost physically reach over and cover their mouths and say, 'You'll lose it if you're not careful.'"
~ Anne Tyler
Smart girl, cousin Anne. If only she'd been staying with me for the last couple of months, I may not have wound up where I am. To save you the trouble of re-reading a half-dozen posts, I'll recap. I made an offhand remark to Dearly Beloved about what our lives would be like if I wasn't a writer. She allowed that it would be nice to share some of that time that Monroe, Hobbs, and company have been monopolizing, and I decided to put that whim into action amid dramatic announcements of my departure.
Upon which I find myself irritable, headachy, out of sorts. Dearly Beloved and Lovely Daughter agree that writing is a part of who I am, that if I'm not doing it, I'm not "me," and I should return to it forthwith. Sounds reasonable. So I return to it amid dramatic announcements of my return.
Thrilled with this development, I regale one and all with outlines and snippets of The Darklighters along with Beyond the Rails III. At which point I find all these wonderful ideas, along with the impetus to write them, evaporating. As another notable said,
Upon which I find myself irritable, headachy, out of sorts. Dearly Beloved and Lovely Daughter agree that writing is a part of who I am, that if I'm not doing it, I'm not "me," and I should return to it forthwith. Sounds reasonable. So I return to it amid dramatic announcements of my return.
Thrilled with this development, I regale one and all with outlines and snippets of The Darklighters along with Beyond the Rails III. At which point I find all these wonderful ideas, along with the impetus to write them, evaporating. As another notable said,
"I just think it's bad to talk about one's present work, for it spoils something at the root of the creative act. It discharges the tension."
~ Norman Mailer
Or maybe that isn't what it is at all. Other possible factors? For the past four months, I've been, in concert with a young lieutenant, filling in for my missing boss, a job I'm not qualified to do, which fact would be the first thing out of anyone's mouth if I actually wanted the position. One good thing that has come of it is that I now have a stellar appreciation of why this guy gets the big bucks! Then, for the last two months we've been locked in the grip of a hot, muggy summer, frying eggs in the driveway hot, and if this summer follows the traditional pattern at all, it won't let up until close to Halloween. The effort of deciding whether you want tea or coffee takes a level of effort that would serve to hand-fell a California Redwood during the winter. It must be affecting everyone else, too, as virtually everywhere I show my face on the internet, with the exception of my beloved Scribblers' Den, I get a blast of shit. The real prize came three days ago on Goodreads. I went to a group I've belonged to for some 16 months and offered to do something nice for them, to wit, establish a directory where everyone with a blog could list a link and maybe pick up some new readers. First response: What's this supposed to be? I explain. Second response: Maybe the internet isn't the place for you.
WTF?
While I'm not quite ready to hand over that level of control to a perfect stranger, it occurred to me that leaving a group where even one member feels comfortable saying something like that to a perfect stranger was both wise and prudent, and I moved to implement that idea without delay, including a couple of other Goodreads groups just on accounta'.
So now I find myself wondering whether I'm really a writer at all. I know I was once; I have the books to prove it. But am I now? Have you ever watched a candle burn itself out? The flame doesn't just get smaller and weaker until it goes out. No, it fights for life like anything else. Just before it dies, you'll see the flame gutter from an inch high to a millimeter four or five times a second before it finally gives it up. It wants to live, but it's out of fuel, and it just can't go any farther. Perhaps this is my final flicker. Look at what I've been doing the past couple of months: I'm interested, then I'm not, then I'm into it, then I'm not. See? Flicker. Or maybe it's all that other stuff, piled on so deep that nothing can shine through. I don't know. All I do know is that all those wonderful story ideas have evaporated, just as Anne and Norman said they would. Nothing new has surfaced to replace them, and I find that I can't care about that. My only regret is having embarrassed myself while leading you all on.
Is there a solution? I don't know, maybe I'm just done. But maybe I need to stop being a writer from July through October. I'm genetically a Viking with genes formed by a thousand centuries of people crunching through the glaciers hunting caribou. When it gets up to 70`, I'm suffering. At 90`, I'm damned near incoherent. That gives me ten weeks to find a story, not to mention a direction. If I'm a writer, I'll find something compelling, a story that I can't live without telling. If I'm not, well,
WTF?
While I'm not quite ready to hand over that level of control to a perfect stranger, it occurred to me that leaving a group where even one member feels comfortable saying something like that to a perfect stranger was both wise and prudent, and I moved to implement that idea without delay, including a couple of other Goodreads groups just on accounta'.
So now I find myself wondering whether I'm really a writer at all. I know I was once; I have the books to prove it. But am I now? Have you ever watched a candle burn itself out? The flame doesn't just get smaller and weaker until it goes out. No, it fights for life like anything else. Just before it dies, you'll see the flame gutter from an inch high to a millimeter four or five times a second before it finally gives it up. It wants to live, but it's out of fuel, and it just can't go any farther. Perhaps this is my final flicker. Look at what I've been doing the past couple of months: I'm interested, then I'm not, then I'm into it, then I'm not. See? Flicker. Or maybe it's all that other stuff, piled on so deep that nothing can shine through. I don't know. All I do know is that all those wonderful story ideas have evaporated, just as Anne and Norman said they would. Nothing new has surfaced to replace them, and I find that I can't care about that. My only regret is having embarrassed myself while leading you all on.
Is there a solution? I don't know, maybe I'm just done. But maybe I need to stop being a writer from July through October. I'm genetically a Viking with genes formed by a thousand centuries of people crunching through the glaciers hunting caribou. When it gets up to 70`, I'm suffering. At 90`, I'm damned near incoherent. That gives me ten weeks to find a story, not to mention a direction. If I'm a writer, I'll find something compelling, a story that I can't live without telling. If I'm not, well,
"A hack is on the constant hunt for 'ideas' for his plots, or 'new angles.' The real writer is haunted by a plot which he must write out of inner necessity. He is impervious to suggestions."
~ Edmund Bergler
And on that note I'm going to go lie down in front of the fan and fire up X-Com: The Enemy Within. I've ten weeks left on my vacation, and I'll see you around Halloween... Unless I've weaned myself off of this insanely demanding hobby by then, in which case I'll just be waving bye-bye.
Enjoy your summer, or winter, depending. Look for me at Scribblers' Den, and I'll see you on your blogs!
Enjoy your summer, or winter, depending. Look for me at Scribblers' Den, and I'll see you on your blogs!