Writing About It

25Jun08

After some thought I decided to delete the story I’d posted here yesterday or the day before. For one thing, it’s probably too long to have as a blog post (which puts some oomph behind my little ad for FLOAT last week). For another, I’m embarrassed by it. I’m sorry.

I’m just not having a good week, but I don’t really want to make this a blog of angsty writing and fishing for compliments, encouragement, or praise. It’s all great and very kind and warm, but people, including me, get tired of that after a while, of constantly reading complaining and bad day shit, and I should probably just take my own advice I gave to Friar on being grumpy, on Brett’s post yesterday. At the same time, perhaps I should take Tei’s advice. Dude, she said, after I commented on her post yesterday, you must be fucked up. Write about it.

The truth is, I can’t write about and exorcise any demons I might have that are causing me to have the longest writer’s block in the history of humankind. I don’t know what they are. I’ve spent a lot of time running from shit that looks like hard work, so those demons are pretty suppressed, I’m telling you. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. To pinpoint it, I’m feeling rather discouraged. My sister, whose view I respect a great deal, said the “Catharsis” story’s beginning seemed a bit forced and she didn’t really like it until the character started with the bread. Then Colin (whose view I also respect a great deal) wrote that he was confused by the ending and wondered what I meant. I answered I don’t know. I think it was something about starting over, being free. Shit, I have no clue. I thought the end a bit weird myself. As though it’s trying to say something really important, but no one really knows what. So finally, because I’m not going to rework it after ten years, the story goes. If you insist on reading it because you got half started or something yesterday, I can always email it to you. The story didn’t get more than a comment, so also now I’m embarrassed. I don’t know why I posted something so old or so long, for that matter. No one has the time to read that much, I think, either. Then I wonder, is it like if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all? (PS. I’m not fishing for compliments here, I don’t want you to answer and fawn over the story because you think if I don’t I’ll go have another southern comfort or three.)

Yesterday sucked (I felt as I do now and I had my head on my desk a lot, practically drooling with boredom over the proofread I am doing, and I was trying not to fall asleep and then I had a southern comfort and grapefruit mixed drink and it tasted good but made me feel like I wanted to die. I had to lie down and it wasn’t even a shot of alcohol. I thought I was going to hurl). Today I got up and showered and went to write and read what I’ve written over the last couple of days and got depressed about it and didn’t even know if it was worth continuing. To be fair, Colin also said that it seemed unreasonable to expect the perfect story after taking ten years off. Sounds practical, logical, whatever, but if you know me, perfect writing is all there is. You do it or you don’t.

A friend and colleague, a published author, called me this morning to encourage me in my writing and in the idea that I should pursue editing fiction rather than continue with this mind-numbing non-fiction no one is likely to read. I’m happy he believes I can do it, and I know he truly does because he would actually tell me otherwise. But I do feel like a huge fraud when it comes to writing. Or like that kid who loves to sing and wants to share but really can’t sing and no one has the heart to say anything.

My sister also wrote to set me straight. “I wish you were listening to Stuart McLean [if you don't know who this is, look him up. He rocks and we're huge fans] last night! He said he gets a lot of questions from people who want to be writers, and they always ask him the same question (and frankly, he’s sick of it): How and where do you get your ideas??? And he says, ideas?! Ideas are easy! Ideas are a dime a dozen! The hardest part about writing is the writing. Choosing the idea that will stick and making it stick. Sitting down and doing it, going over it and over it and rewriting it with his producer a million times just so that it’s nevermind perfect but at least okay to make public. His advice: write for something or someone and give yourself a deadline. It’s the only way.

“And I know [I hear you say], but I have to work! And in that case, switch your priorities. Let the food go mouldy in the fridge, eat take-out for a month, never wash the dishes, don’t do laundry, and you can forget about combing your hair. Make friends with the dust bunnies, accept that a plant or two might die, leave the cottage shut up (actually, in your case, at least writing is mobile), exercise is a no-no, and chocolate-covered coffee beans a must. Your husband might miss you, but he’ll also be very proud of you, that, although you’re a disgusting slob (and if your husband is a disgusting slob like mine, then you don’t even have to worry about it), you’re actually doing what you both know you should be doing, and not being miserable about not doing it. The flip side to being totally miserable when you’re not doing it is being a bad-tempered, angry potty-mouth when you are doing it. And don’t forget the constant berating yourself (out loud) for being a terrible, no-good writer. And then you ask yourself, why am I doing this then???? To totally paraphrase my other boyfriend Tom Allen from the CBC: Animals do things to get rewards. Dogs do silly things to get food and affection, people do silly things to get money. Why on earth do people practise their whole lives and beat themselves up over being an artist? What’s the reward? The 2 minutes of hormonal rush to the brain when you’re on stage before a show, the 2 minutes when you get those final brushstrokes and you’ve nailed it, the 2 minutes of hormonal rush to the brain when you finish a story? It’s a small pellet of food, but it must be a pretty big damn reward.”

That’s my sis, everybody. Tough act to follow.

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