Writer's Blues
I have come to the conclusion that I just don't write much anymore. That's sad. I don't really have much of an excuse.
I suppose the main thing you say is that I just don't get away to my computer like I used to, but that's really not true. I could forego other activities and write, but I don't. Plus, well before I was a computer writer, I wrote in notebooks and I barely do that anymore either.
It's gotten to the point that I'm writing outlines for essays and stories that I would write if I had the time. I write descriptions of scenes that I should be writing. I'll say this honestly, is there any way to be both a father and a writer. Has my definition of "free time" now taken such a hit that I have nothing by which to recover it.
It's weird when I sit back and think about it because in my mind there's all this free time and I'm just wasting it. I'm letting it slip past me without using it very well at all. But here I am, right now, thinking about it, and I'm starting to wonder when exactly I have this free time that I'm sure I'm wasting. I chase my son in the morning, or sleep in depending on whether its mine or my wife's morning to get up with the boy. I watch him run around, usually with Sesame Street in the background (it's hard to read anything with Sesame Street in the background, especially say, American Psycho). Eventually he goes to sleep and I build stuff to sell on Ebay so that my family can eat. Some time in the afternoon, he wakes up and either I or my wife watch him. If she's watching him, I get more Ebay building time. If I'm watching him, I try to read or do Ebay stuff I can do at the kitchen table, until around five o'clock when I settle down for the evening.
This is my life.
Now, I'm not complaining, except that somewhere in the back of my consciousness, and not too far back mind you, is a little voice that expects to see twenty pages written and at least five novels read per week. This voice is my "lost it" detector that routinely reminds me that all great novelists were great long before they were my age and that I haven't written anything even mildly entertaining besides, occassionally, this blog, in a few years.
I think the real trouble here is that I began writing my really big novel write when I started my master's program. Seven years later and I'm still not finished. Books don't take seven years to write, and let's face it, if you aren't writing then you aren't a writer.
Now, I know I'm having one of those days, and I know that this sounds like I'm fishing for a "buck up cap'n" but I'm not. I just want to point out that this is the writer's depression. That no matter what you have to (absolutely must) do, no matter what accolades you're winning in other parts of your life, no matter how successful you are as a human being as far as anyone or everyone else is concerned, if you aren't writing, you have trouble evaluating yourself as anything but a failing (or God help us all, failed) writer.
But at least I've got that going for me, and let's face it, only writer's feel this way.
I suppose the main thing you say is that I just don't get away to my computer like I used to, but that's really not true. I could forego other activities and write, but I don't. Plus, well before I was a computer writer, I wrote in notebooks and I barely do that anymore either.
It's gotten to the point that I'm writing outlines for essays and stories that I would write if I had the time. I write descriptions of scenes that I should be writing. I'll say this honestly, is there any way to be both a father and a writer. Has my definition of "free time" now taken such a hit that I have nothing by which to recover it.
It's weird when I sit back and think about it because in my mind there's all this free time and I'm just wasting it. I'm letting it slip past me without using it very well at all. But here I am, right now, thinking about it, and I'm starting to wonder when exactly I have this free time that I'm sure I'm wasting. I chase my son in the morning, or sleep in depending on whether its mine or my wife's morning to get up with the boy. I watch him run around, usually with Sesame Street in the background (it's hard to read anything with Sesame Street in the background, especially say, American Psycho). Eventually he goes to sleep and I build stuff to sell on Ebay so that my family can eat. Some time in the afternoon, he wakes up and either I or my wife watch him. If she's watching him, I get more Ebay building time. If I'm watching him, I try to read or do Ebay stuff I can do at the kitchen table, until around five o'clock when I settle down for the evening.
This is my life.
Now, I'm not complaining, except that somewhere in the back of my consciousness, and not too far back mind you, is a little voice that expects to see twenty pages written and at least five novels read per week. This voice is my "lost it" detector that routinely reminds me that all great novelists were great long before they were my age and that I haven't written anything even mildly entertaining besides, occassionally, this blog, in a few years.
I think the real trouble here is that I began writing my really big novel write when I started my master's program. Seven years later and I'm still not finished. Books don't take seven years to write, and let's face it, if you aren't writing then you aren't a writer.
Now, I know I'm having one of those days, and I know that this sounds like I'm fishing for a "buck up cap'n" but I'm not. I just want to point out that this is the writer's depression. That no matter what you have to (absolutely must) do, no matter what accolades you're winning in other parts of your life, no matter how successful you are as a human being as far as anyone or everyone else is concerned, if you aren't writing, you have trouble evaluating yourself as anything but a failing (or God help us all, failed) writer.
But at least I've got that going for me, and let's face it, only writer's feel this way.
posted by Monstro D. Whale at
12:35 PM
6 Comments:
This is how I feel every day. I'm not getting my quota of writing done. My book is stale, musty, and rotting by the hour. The story that I was writing is disappearing from my imagination. My characters are forgotten, lonely, and deprived of the existence they might have had. Somebody else is going to write my book before I do. Everything else is meaningless, so how about I just quit work and let the writing be my work. Am I willing to starve myself and my wife to take the chance on being a full-time writer?
Flow-on-consciousness brought to you by a writer's desperation.
Yeah, this post hits home...
"...all great novelists were great long before they were my age..."
I think that same thing all the frickin time. What's worse,
I'm addicted to Garrison Keillor's daily "Writer's Almanac" email. Do you read that? Every day, it lists celebrated writers' birthdays -- usually saying when they were born and what years their big, important books came out. I'm obsessed with doing the math and then comparing it to myself. Then I get all bummed out and think, "Dude, you're nearly 40. Where the fuck is that stack of published books you figured you'd have by now?!" Every once in a while, though, there'll be someone on there (e.g., Toni Morrison, Sidney Sheldon, Wallace Stevens, Stanley Kunitz) who started atypically late. (Okay, maybe those weren't exactly Grandma Moses-type examples, but the fact is that many people have found artistic success later in life.
Aside from that, my only response (and, forgive me if I've said this before) is that TV is a HUGE waste of potentially creative time, IMHO. I "movie out" every so often, but I think I've gotten more done creatively in the past few years since consciously keeping away from TV. Although, it doesn't sound like you're a TV junkie.
Also, once the kids get a little older, they become more independent. That's not to say parents shoudl ignore their kids. But, they do tend to play quietly on their own more than when they're very young. That, and the shows change from Sesame Street to other shows that allow adults in the room to think a little mroe clearly -- like Mary Poppins and so forth.
BTW, Annie Proulx is another one. Didn't publish fiction till her 50s.
Yes...but Annie Proulx sucks.
I think, it's just one of those things that creative energy isn't so abundant one you're past your twenties. I think it might be better harnessed, and who knows, maybe it will become more abundant again once I shirk off one of my 10 huge responsabilities. Let's hope. Let's really hope.
Thing is, and I might of already said this, but my style of writing has always been: sit down, write, don't get up until the thing is finished. Well, I just can't do that anymore. I haven't trained myself to keep a plot line going in my mind. With the novel I'm writing now, I had an ending to it when I began and then...I just forgot it. I've spent years trying to remember what that ending was.
Plot line? Ha. I think mine will be more akin to a series of short stories that are lumped together. No overarching plot line, really. There's no way I can keep track of it under these circumstances. At times, I wonder if it might be necessary to ditch the wife, the full time job, and the current residence in order for the story to get finished.
Actually, being homeless would be a bad thing which wouldn't help my writing one bit. Also, I love my wife and wouldn't be able to write without her loving support. However, in my writing fantasies I leave everything behind to live in a small hut high on a mountain in Nepal where I write prodigiously for decades.
Post a Comment
<< Home