Despite all my promises to not leave this space unattended, the Mirror has been silent and still for almost a week now. Um. Whoops?
The truth is that this has been the last week, the final push before all the cards have to be laid down, all bets have to been, the dice are thrown, and all those other tired gambling metaphors. Ultimately, it became a question of which projects matter and which ones are just interesting, and I decided that the little time I did have for "none-essay writing" writing would be better spent getting that novel finished. It's still not done, by the way, that project I've been working on and talking about for the last month. But it's getting close, I think and I'm eager to reach the conclusion and... well, maybe eager isn't quite the proper word. I would like very much to be done, yes, but part of me is also terrified that I won't be able to ignore all the mistakes I made with the first draft once it's time to revise. Right now, I'm forcing myself to keep plunging forward, ignoring what I'm sure are a host of errors that are to be expected as I discover more about my world and my characters.
The weird thing, however? Despite the fact that I've really only been working on the novel, in order to give myself as much time as possible to get my projects done, the truth is I haven't made much progress on any of them. I've had this entire week and I've whittled it away worrying and stressing and not working, and, rather ironically I might add, delaying work on those projects by distracting myself with other things like the novel. I'm honestly surprised that I didn't use this blog as an excuse to spend more time not writing my essays.
It feels like a physical pressure on my chest. I know that, one way or another, for better or worse, this feeling won't persist. I know that I'll knuckle down and just freaking do the work that needs to get done. But I guess for some strange reason, part of me is looking ahead and would rather feel intimidated than motivated. I don't know why that is. Burn out, maybe. Perhaps just a little bit of laziness, some good old procrastination.
Writing out my thoughts about it all has helped somewhat, though I'm sure this is not making for particularly interesting reading. My apologies. I will endeavor to return to a more engaging style of posting, perhaps after my massive "to-do" list has been whittled down appropriately.
I'm pretty sure that means another few days without posting in the blog. Unless I feel the need to stall, in which case, um, see you tomorrow, I guess?
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Day After
After an interesting deviation on Saturday from my usual subject, we're back to the usual reflecting that you've all come to know and love, or at the very least, expect from me in my self-serving little slice of the Internet.
A lot of my posts over the past few weeks dealt with my anxiety that it would be hard to will myself to write once the blog requirement and NaNoWriMo had both passed. Now, I don't really feel like I have anything further to add on those subjects, since I talked about them at length, perhaps even longer than I really needed. If that's the case, well, that's unfortunate, because tonight I want to talk a bit about what it's like writing in my post NaNoWriMo, post-required blog world.
It's definitely harder. Not to write so much, because the difficult of writing is a laughably complex thing to considers. Some days, the writing is easy. Some days, it isn't, and there are a whole slew of reasons why that may be, all of which may be different, related to each other or not, justified or insane, in whatever absurd combination life decides is the most amusing. What was I saying?
Oh, right, forcing myself to sit down and write. You've already seen this a little bit with the blog, that I fell off my usual schedule a little bit after the requirement had passed. I wouldn't say I've failed to remain consistent, however, after all, I'm here now, aren't I, and if you look back at the archives, 21 posts a month seems to be the target goal. Not sure why it turned out to be twenty-one for both September and October. One would assume that since the goal was five posts a week, and those months have different numbers of days, then... you know what, never mind. Post count isn't the point here.
Tonight was the first night post-NaNoWriMo, although, yes, I realize that since today is still November, it won't actually end until tomorrow. But tonight was the first night for me after reaching that goal of 50,000 words, so tonight was really the first night where I didn't "have" to write any longer. The crunch time is over, right? The story may not be done, but that's okay, now I can go at whatever pace I want, right? I can relax, and all that.
Sounds reasonable, except that I know that I really, really can't. Because if I relax, I'll backslide. I haven't missed a day of writing yet, and it makes me feel great, it makes me feel like the genuine article, a writer plying his trade as opposed to a pirate who doesn't do anything. That's a metaphor, by the way, well, technically a trope; I'm not actually trying to suggest that I was in danger of being a digital pirate or anything.
I think that the biggest reason why today was so much harder than yesterday is because now my goal has changed. I reached that 50k milestone, that 50k in 30 days, and just like that, suddenly all the pressure is off, all the constraints that forced me to work even when I was sick, that made me sit here and do work when I wanted to slack off and play Dragon Age on my Xbox, that's all gone. When I had the 50k looming over me, I knew if I was behind or not, if I was getting as much work done as I needed to be doing on any given day. I always knew that I had a target number to shoot for, roughly 1670 words per day, which meant that I knew when I was under for the daily requirement, and what days I surpassed it.
I don't think I can exist under this new deadline; instead of "write 50,000 words in thirty days," it seems to be now that I have to "okay, now write words until the story is finished." But that's an empty goal, it's unfocused, it's a race where I don't really know where the finish line is. How do I know if I'm getting close? How do I know if I'm doing well? I'm not going to allow myself to read back over what I've done, because then I start to self-edit and the project dies. I need those milestones to strive towards, I need those bulls-eyes to aim at. It can't just be "write till the story is done."
The problem is, I don't really know what the new goal should be. Do I try for another 50k in 30 days? I don't know if "Fallen" has enough story left to be told in another 50,000 words, I mean, it's entirely possible, but I don't know if it'll mesh with the story arc if this point that was supposed to be near the climax instead just becomes the half-way point. On the other hand, I do still have a lot of ideas, some of which I haven't even begun to explore in this current work. On the other other hand (because I totally have three hands) those ideas might be better served in, say, a sequel to the current story, rather than just adding it on to this one.
It's annoying to be in this strange little place, because it's at once both complicated and simple. I'll be the first to say that it shouldn't matter whether I'm trying to write 1670 words a day or just reach 50,000 in thirty days, because it still produces the same result. The problem, however, is that my mind is a very, very weird thing and it needs all kinds of cajoling and elaborate mental games in order to be as productive as it has been. Clearly, the 50k in 30 days was a good idea, because it worked. Will telling myself that I have a daily goal of 1670 words work as well? I don't know. I've tried it before, and I always gave up after a few days. But that was also before I began this blog and this novel. Maybe now, I'm different enough that it won't make a difference?
This post has already run on for longer than I intended, but that's the problem when I write about a problem that I don't yet have an answer for. At the moment, I think a weekly goal is a good medium, since I don't quite know whether or not Fallen will make it to 100,000 words (God, can you even imagine? My first book, which remains the single largest thing I've ever done clocked in at about 88,000 words and the sequel was somewhere around 76,000 words, the latter of which remains unfinished at the moment.) So perhaps a modest goal of 10,000 words per week, which is a little bit less than the NaNoWriMo pace will suffice. I do think I need the target number, since for some reason, over this past month, I found it very helpful for getting my ass into gear when I'd look at a calendar and be able to tell myself "okay, by November 24th, I should have this many words written for the story."
I don't know why my brain forces me to do this. And on an unrelated, I actually had no idea that I'd reached 76k in the sequel to my first novel. I thought it was like 50 or 60k. Man, I should really go back and try to finish that, at some point. Or maybe not, I don't know... I'm not sure whether it would be better to let that old relic remain in my past, or whether it'd be worth it to try and finish it.
We'll see what happens. For the immediate future, however, I know what my current priority is: finishing my current novel!
It feels really, really good to say that again.
A lot of my posts over the past few weeks dealt with my anxiety that it would be hard to will myself to write once the blog requirement and NaNoWriMo had both passed. Now, I don't really feel like I have anything further to add on those subjects, since I talked about them at length, perhaps even longer than I really needed. If that's the case, well, that's unfortunate, because tonight I want to talk a bit about what it's like writing in my post NaNoWriMo, post-required blog world.
It's definitely harder. Not to write so much, because the difficult of writing is a laughably complex thing to considers. Some days, the writing is easy. Some days, it isn't, and there are a whole slew of reasons why that may be, all of which may be different, related to each other or not, justified or insane, in whatever absurd combination life decides is the most amusing. What was I saying?
Oh, right, forcing myself to sit down and write. You've already seen this a little bit with the blog, that I fell off my usual schedule a little bit after the requirement had passed. I wouldn't say I've failed to remain consistent, however, after all, I'm here now, aren't I, and if you look back at the archives, 21 posts a month seems to be the target goal. Not sure why it turned out to be twenty-one for both September and October. One would assume that since the goal was five posts a week, and those months have different numbers of days, then... you know what, never mind. Post count isn't the point here.
Tonight was the first night post-NaNoWriMo, although, yes, I realize that since today is still November, it won't actually end until tomorrow. But tonight was the first night for me after reaching that goal of 50,000 words, so tonight was really the first night where I didn't "have" to write any longer. The crunch time is over, right? The story may not be done, but that's okay, now I can go at whatever pace I want, right? I can relax, and all that.
Sounds reasonable, except that I know that I really, really can't. Because if I relax, I'll backslide. I haven't missed a day of writing yet, and it makes me feel great, it makes me feel like the genuine article, a writer plying his trade as opposed to a pirate who doesn't do anything. That's a metaphor, by the way, well, technically a trope; I'm not actually trying to suggest that I was in danger of being a digital pirate or anything.
I think that the biggest reason why today was so much harder than yesterday is because now my goal has changed. I reached that 50k milestone, that 50k in 30 days, and just like that, suddenly all the pressure is off, all the constraints that forced me to work even when I was sick, that made me sit here and do work when I wanted to slack off and play Dragon Age on my Xbox, that's all gone. When I had the 50k looming over me, I knew if I was behind or not, if I was getting as much work done as I needed to be doing on any given day. I always knew that I had a target number to shoot for, roughly 1670 words per day, which meant that I knew when I was under for the daily requirement, and what days I surpassed it.
I don't think I can exist under this new deadline; instead of "write 50,000 words in thirty days," it seems to be now that I have to "okay, now write words until the story is finished." But that's an empty goal, it's unfocused, it's a race where I don't really know where the finish line is. How do I know if I'm getting close? How do I know if I'm doing well? I'm not going to allow myself to read back over what I've done, because then I start to self-edit and the project dies. I need those milestones to strive towards, I need those bulls-eyes to aim at. It can't just be "write till the story is done."
The problem is, I don't really know what the new goal should be. Do I try for another 50k in 30 days? I don't know if "Fallen" has enough story left to be told in another 50,000 words, I mean, it's entirely possible, but I don't know if it'll mesh with the story arc if this point that was supposed to be near the climax instead just becomes the half-way point. On the other hand, I do still have a lot of ideas, some of which I haven't even begun to explore in this current work. On the other other hand (because I totally have three hands) those ideas might be better served in, say, a sequel to the current story, rather than just adding it on to this one.
It's annoying to be in this strange little place, because it's at once both complicated and simple. I'll be the first to say that it shouldn't matter whether I'm trying to write 1670 words a day or just reach 50,000 in thirty days, because it still produces the same result. The problem, however, is that my mind is a very, very weird thing and it needs all kinds of cajoling and elaborate mental games in order to be as productive as it has been. Clearly, the 50k in 30 days was a good idea, because it worked. Will telling myself that I have a daily goal of 1670 words work as well? I don't know. I've tried it before, and I always gave up after a few days. But that was also before I began this blog and this novel. Maybe now, I'm different enough that it won't make a difference?
This post has already run on for longer than I intended, but that's the problem when I write about a problem that I don't yet have an answer for. At the moment, I think a weekly goal is a good medium, since I don't quite know whether or not Fallen will make it to 100,000 words (God, can you even imagine? My first book, which remains the single largest thing I've ever done clocked in at about 88,000 words and the sequel was somewhere around 76,000 words, the latter of which remains unfinished at the moment.) So perhaps a modest goal of 10,000 words per week, which is a little bit less than the NaNoWriMo pace will suffice. I do think I need the target number, since for some reason, over this past month, I found it very helpful for getting my ass into gear when I'd look at a calendar and be able to tell myself "okay, by November 24th, I should have this many words written for the story."
I don't know why my brain forces me to do this. And on an unrelated, I actually had no idea that I'd reached 76k in the sequel to my first novel. I thought it was like 50 or 60k. Man, I should really go back and try to finish that, at some point. Or maybe not, I don't know... I'm not sure whether it would be better to let that old relic remain in my past, or whether it'd be worth it to try and finish it.
We'll see what happens. For the immediate future, however, I know what my current priority is: finishing my current novel!
It feels really, really good to say that again.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Holiday Reflection
There's something on than writing on my mind tonight. Just thought I'd throw that out there, so that you won't be disappointed later. I don't really know why you're reading this, to be honest, but I like to think it's because you either care about what I have to say, or you think that I know what I'm talking about, and that what I'm saying is useful. Those may or may not be the same things, I'm not really sure.
Let me rephrase: there will be no keen observations about the craft tonight. But wait, before you skip on to the next blog in your RSS feed or bookmark list (because I'm arrogant enough to assume that I warrant either of those things, totally true) I do have something else that I think is worth dwelling on, for a time. Are you still here? Wonderful. Let's get to it.
So, it was Thanksgiving this past week. Thanksgiving is a holiday that I've always had mixed emotions about. As a younger individual, I was mostly just ambivalent. When I became a vegetarian, the first few Thanksgivings were a source of trepidation, albeit unnecessarily so; my mom and dad made sure I wouldn't be left out in the cold when it came to food options. This past dinner was especially wonderful, although I'm not really one to talk about what I eat so I won't go into details, but it involved banana squash, cheese, something that was kind of like spinach but wasn't spinach... look, I don't know, all I know is that it was wonderful. Where was I? Oh yes.
So aside from food, Thanksgiving is about family. More specifically, it's about seeing your family. Now, don't get me wrong, I like my family well enough; you might even say I love them. I'd say that myself. I never really considered myself to be a moody teenager growing up, never felt I really went through any sort of "rebellion" period where I was all "omg, my family's so lame and I hate them, blargh." But I guess I must have, because all of my memories of Thanksgiving in years past were associated with a sort of "tolerance" rather than me actually enjoying myself. So I guess I must have gone through some sort of teenage angst thing, right?
This year, however, I felt different. I played with my cousin's kids (they're four and two, I believe. So, you know, little.) I didn't look for a way to make a snide political comment. I had a good time even though I knew it wasn't really about me, that the attention would go to the little ones because when you're four and two, everything you do is either adorable, or if not adorable, certainly attention-grabbing.
It's weird: I felt like an adult, which isn't something I'm used to feeling when I'm with my family. I don't know what it is, what changed about me, why I'm suddenly this different person who had a great time, who enjoyed doing "uncle" stuff (even though I'm technically a second cousin). All I know is that two years ago, I couldn't stand being around kids, didn't know how to talk to them, and now it's just... so very different.
I guess the reason why I felt compelled to write about is because I think it's a rare thing, that we see in any tangible way how our attitudes, thoughts and opinions shift as we grow older, as we mature and move further and further away from childish things. I know that I'm not the same person I was five years ago, not really, and that I'm even a different person now compared to who I was a year ago, but even when that change happens quickly, even when it happens overnight, I don't think we often have a chance to realize it the way I did on Thursday.
Thursday was a Thanksgiving dinner very much like the one last year, and the one the year before that, but for some reason, this year I felt like I really was received by my family and really felt as though I had come into my own as an adult in their eyes, and maybe even my own.
Let me rephrase: there will be no keen observations about the craft tonight. But wait, before you skip on to the next blog in your RSS feed or bookmark list (because I'm arrogant enough to assume that I warrant either of those things, totally true) I do have something else that I think is worth dwelling on, for a time. Are you still here? Wonderful. Let's get to it.
So, it was Thanksgiving this past week. Thanksgiving is a holiday that I've always had mixed emotions about. As a younger individual, I was mostly just ambivalent. When I became a vegetarian, the first few Thanksgivings were a source of trepidation, albeit unnecessarily so; my mom and dad made sure I wouldn't be left out in the cold when it came to food options. This past dinner was especially wonderful, although I'm not really one to talk about what I eat so I won't go into details, but it involved banana squash, cheese, something that was kind of like spinach but wasn't spinach... look, I don't know, all I know is that it was wonderful. Where was I? Oh yes.
So aside from food, Thanksgiving is about family. More specifically, it's about seeing your family. Now, don't get me wrong, I like my family well enough; you might even say I love them. I'd say that myself. I never really considered myself to be a moody teenager growing up, never felt I really went through any sort of "rebellion" period where I was all "omg, my family's so lame and I hate them, blargh." But I guess I must have, because all of my memories of Thanksgiving in years past were associated with a sort of "tolerance" rather than me actually enjoying myself. So I guess I must have gone through some sort of teenage angst thing, right?
This year, however, I felt different. I played with my cousin's kids (they're four and two, I believe. So, you know, little.) I didn't look for a way to make a snide political comment. I had a good time even though I knew it wasn't really about me, that the attention would go to the little ones because when you're four and two, everything you do is either adorable, or if not adorable, certainly attention-grabbing.
It's weird: I felt like an adult, which isn't something I'm used to feeling when I'm with my family. I don't know what it is, what changed about me, why I'm suddenly this different person who had a great time, who enjoyed doing "uncle" stuff (even though I'm technically a second cousin). All I know is that two years ago, I couldn't stand being around kids, didn't know how to talk to them, and now it's just... so very different.
I guess the reason why I felt compelled to write about is because I think it's a rare thing, that we see in any tangible way how our attitudes, thoughts and opinions shift as we grow older, as we mature and move further and further away from childish things. I know that I'm not the same person I was five years ago, not really, and that I'm even a different person now compared to who I was a year ago, but even when that change happens quickly, even when it happens overnight, I don't think we often have a chance to realize it the way I did on Thursday.
Thursday was a Thanksgiving dinner very much like the one last year, and the one the year before that, but for some reason, this year I felt like I really was received by my family and really felt as though I had come into my own as an adult in their eyes, and maybe even my own.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Something To Say To The World
Here I am once again, because I want to be.
I've been thinking a lot about publishing lately, and I think it's something of a personal failure that I haven't allowed myself to blog about it before. Part of it... all of it, actually, comes from this strange anxiety I have towards the subject, something that is equal parts hope, fear, love and loathing.
Publishing has always been for me the one big milestone. I've told people that my dream is not to be a best selling author and on the New York Times list, but simply to go into Barnes & Nobles (or any book store, really), walk into the fiction section, grab a copy of my own book, take it up to the counter and buy it. I don't care if the clerk recognizes me, don't care if he or she sees that the name on the cover and the name on the debit card are the same. I just want to buy my own book. That's been the dream.
Because of that dream, there's always been the feeling that publishing equals success, and thus, the fact that I've never been published means that I haven't been successful as a writer. This has been something that I've grappled with for a while. On the one hand, part of the reason I haven't been published is because I've never really tried... I only ever sent a novel manuscript off to one publisher, and only ever submitted two of my short stories. So I can't say that I've given it a fair shake and was rejected every time.
I think the fear is that I'm not sure what to do if I go through all that hard work and I fail anyway. What happens then? Do I start rationalizing that publishing isn't a milestone of success, even though I've told myself over and over again that it is? I recognize, of course, that success means different things to different people, that many great writers were completely ignored during their entire lives, and that ultimately, it's not even supposed to be about something as silly as my little vanity dream. Writing isn't about getting your name on a book. It's not even about being a writer, which sounds strange, but let me explain. There was an article I read once that was completely unrelated to what I'm talking about now but contained this amusing little story I'd like to share with you:
According to his own site, when Dylan Avery was 18, he was doing construction work on a bar owned by James "Tony Soprano" Gandolfini. No, I didn't make that up. Anyway, Avery wanted to be a movie director. At a party he seized the opportunity to buttonhole Gandolfini, and the two had this conversation:
Avery: Mr. Soprano! I'm a huge fan!
Soprano: That's great, kid.
Avery: You know, I want to be a director...
Soprano: Like I give a shit. The deformed kid who cleans my fuckin' gutters wants to be a director. You got an idea for a movie?
Avery: Well, no...
Soprano: Then what the fuck are you comin' up to me talkin' about bein' a director? Let me tell you the problem with kids like you. You don't wanna direct. You don't wanna tell stories. You wanna be a director. You wanna walk down red carpets with a fuckin' starlet on your arm. You ain't got nothin' to say to the world. For you, the movies, the work, it's just a means to an end. The people who make it, the people who deserve to make it, the ones who get respect... they're the ones who got something to say to the world.
That's the point that I'm trying to make here; that it's not even supposed to be about being a writer, but about telling stories, about having something to say to the world. And believe me, if that's what it means to be successful, well, no wonder I'm anxious, no wonder I'm just this little ball of insecurity when it comes to my dream. It's not easy to have something to say to the world, to come up with this story that you feel needs to be told, not because you want the book deal, but because it's something worth telling.
And yet, that's what it really means, to be successful. It's not about having your name on a cover, or getting paid, or even getting to tell people "oh, yeah, I'm a writer and yeah, I've been published."
It's about having something to say to the world, and getting the opportunity to say it. The same is true of every creative person, every writer, every artist, every director.
No matter what anybody else might think, I do know one thing; I want to be the kind of writer who has something to say, not just one who wants all the acclaim that comes with "making it."
I've been thinking a lot about publishing lately, and I think it's something of a personal failure that I haven't allowed myself to blog about it before. Part of it... all of it, actually, comes from this strange anxiety I have towards the subject, something that is equal parts hope, fear, love and loathing.
Publishing has always been for me the one big milestone. I've told people that my dream is not to be a best selling author and on the New York Times list, but simply to go into Barnes & Nobles (or any book store, really), walk into the fiction section, grab a copy of my own book, take it up to the counter and buy it. I don't care if the clerk recognizes me, don't care if he or she sees that the name on the cover and the name on the debit card are the same. I just want to buy my own book. That's been the dream.
Because of that dream, there's always been the feeling that publishing equals success, and thus, the fact that I've never been published means that I haven't been successful as a writer. This has been something that I've grappled with for a while. On the one hand, part of the reason I haven't been published is because I've never really tried... I only ever sent a novel manuscript off to one publisher, and only ever submitted two of my short stories. So I can't say that I've given it a fair shake and was rejected every time.
I think the fear is that I'm not sure what to do if I go through all that hard work and I fail anyway. What happens then? Do I start rationalizing that publishing isn't a milestone of success, even though I've told myself over and over again that it is? I recognize, of course, that success means different things to different people, that many great writers were completely ignored during their entire lives, and that ultimately, it's not even supposed to be about something as silly as my little vanity dream. Writing isn't about getting your name on a book. It's not even about being a writer, which sounds strange, but let me explain. There was an article I read once that was completely unrelated to what I'm talking about now but contained this amusing little story I'd like to share with you:
According to his own site, when Dylan Avery was 18, he was doing construction work on a bar owned by James "Tony Soprano" Gandolfini. No, I didn't make that up. Anyway, Avery wanted to be a movie director. At a party he seized the opportunity to buttonhole Gandolfini, and the two had this conversation:
Avery: Mr. Soprano! I'm a huge fan!
Soprano: That's great, kid.
Avery: You know, I want to be a director...
Soprano: Like I give a shit. The deformed kid who cleans my fuckin' gutters wants to be a director. You got an idea for a movie?
Avery: Well, no...
Soprano: Then what the fuck are you comin' up to me talkin' about bein' a director? Let me tell you the problem with kids like you. You don't wanna direct. You don't wanna tell stories. You wanna be a director. You wanna walk down red carpets with a fuckin' starlet on your arm. You ain't got nothin' to say to the world. For you, the movies, the work, it's just a means to an end. The people who make it, the people who deserve to make it, the ones who get respect... they're the ones who got something to say to the world.
That's the point that I'm trying to make here; that it's not even supposed to be about being a writer, but about telling stories, about having something to say to the world. And believe me, if that's what it means to be successful, well, no wonder I'm anxious, no wonder I'm just this little ball of insecurity when it comes to my dream. It's not easy to have something to say to the world, to come up with this story that you feel needs to be told, not because you want the book deal, but because it's something worth telling.
And yet, that's what it really means, to be successful. It's not about having your name on a cover, or getting paid, or even getting to tell people "oh, yeah, I'm a writer and yeah, I've been published."
It's about having something to say to the world, and getting the opportunity to say it. The same is true of every creative person, every writer, every artist, every director.
No matter what anybody else might think, I do know one thing; I want to be the kind of writer who has something to say, not just one who wants all the acclaim that comes with "making it."
Thursday, November 26, 2009
After The End
And so here we are. The requirement has passed and yet, as I said, I remain here in this digital space, to write and reflect and perhaps rant, all depending on what thoughts are in my head. It's not about grades now or meeting the quota, although to be honest, it's not like I wrote every previous entry thinking "hmmm, how can I get an A with this?" From the very beginning, I've written what I wanted to write, written what's been in my mind. That it meets the requirements has actually been, to be perfectly honest, rather incidental. I don't know that I'd change anything that I've done even if I'd been told I was doing it wrong.
I must admit, the urge to not work is stronger now than I would have anticipated. Several times, while I've sat here and wondered what to say, my mind has had the damnably tempting idea of "why bother saying anything? It's not like you need to, now." That's exactly why I can't stop doing this, of course, because I know that once the impetus of requirement is lifted, there is nothing to force the writing discipline that I've cultivated over these past few months. That's the tricky thing about discipline, I've noticed: if you manage to learn it while you're being told to, the real struggle comes from adhering to it when there's nobody else around to tell you want to do.
So I have to blog now. I have to blog as much as I have been, because if I don't, I'll lose the discipline. I have to blog just like I have to tell me to not stop writing just because NaNoWriMo is almost over. I have to do these things, and I have to force myself, because pretty soon, all the lights will turn off, the music will play, show will be over and everybody gets to go home, except for me, because I won't let myself.
Going home means not coming into work tomorrow. Skipping a day means falling back into old habits.
You know one other thing I've noticed? I wrote yesterday about how all of us who wish to be novelists are secretly terrified of being one of those people who walks around for forty years talking about that idea for a novel we have, but never actually doing it. There's even a Family Guy skit about that, between Brian and Stewie, the whole "how's that novel you're working on? Been, uh, been working on that for about three years now?"
Well, one thing I noticed is that forcing myself to write every day means inevitably telling people "oh, I can't do that tonight, I have to go home and write first." It was a little annoying, actually, when sticking to my goal meant interrupting or not committing to other plans. But now, I take a certain measure of pleasure in it, actually; I feel more like the genuine article, when I say I can't do something because I'm dedicated to my work.
It could just be some sort of ego stroking on my part, some little pride thing gleaned from getting that whole "oh, I'm a serious writer" vibe out there for people to appreciate, since, let's face it, it won't come up very often unless you tell people what it is that you like to do. If that's true, I'm completely fine with that. Because aside from ego stroking, there's also the sense, in my own mind, that this is me proving to myself that I'm serious about this thing. Because it's really easy to say, oh, I'm a writer and I have nothing else to do, so I guess I'll do that writing thing. It's something else, something considerably more meaningful, in my opinion, when you make the decision to write when you could be doing something else.
I'm not saying that it makes me a better person. I am saying, however, that it makes me feel like I'm more dedicated to my craft than ever before.
I must admit, the urge to not work is stronger now than I would have anticipated. Several times, while I've sat here and wondered what to say, my mind has had the damnably tempting idea of "why bother saying anything? It's not like you need to, now." That's exactly why I can't stop doing this, of course, because I know that once the impetus of requirement is lifted, there is nothing to force the writing discipline that I've cultivated over these past few months. That's the tricky thing about discipline, I've noticed: if you manage to learn it while you're being told to, the real struggle comes from adhering to it when there's nobody else around to tell you want to do.
So I have to blog now. I have to blog as much as I have been, because if I don't, I'll lose the discipline. I have to blog just like I have to tell me to not stop writing just because NaNoWriMo is almost over. I have to do these things, and I have to force myself, because pretty soon, all the lights will turn off, the music will play, show will be over and everybody gets to go home, except for me, because I won't let myself.
Going home means not coming into work tomorrow. Skipping a day means falling back into old habits.
You know one other thing I've noticed? I wrote yesterday about how all of us who wish to be novelists are secretly terrified of being one of those people who walks around for forty years talking about that idea for a novel we have, but never actually doing it. There's even a Family Guy skit about that, between Brian and Stewie, the whole "how's that novel you're working on? Been, uh, been working on that for about three years now?"
Well, one thing I noticed is that forcing myself to write every day means inevitably telling people "oh, I can't do that tonight, I have to go home and write first." It was a little annoying, actually, when sticking to my goal meant interrupting or not committing to other plans. But now, I take a certain measure of pleasure in it, actually; I feel more like the genuine article, when I say I can't do something because I'm dedicated to my work.
It could just be some sort of ego stroking on my part, some little pride thing gleaned from getting that whole "oh, I'm a serious writer" vibe out there for people to appreciate, since, let's face it, it won't come up very often unless you tell people what it is that you like to do. If that's true, I'm completely fine with that. Because aside from ego stroking, there's also the sense, in my own mind, that this is me proving to myself that I'm serious about this thing. Because it's really easy to say, oh, I'm a writer and I have nothing else to do, so I guess I'll do that writing thing. It's something else, something considerably more meaningful, in my opinion, when you make the decision to write when you could be doing something else.
I'm not saying that it makes me a better person. I am saying, however, that it makes me feel like I'm more dedicated to my craft than ever before.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
