Agony

For me, writing is really an agony.

Alexandra Fuller

This is not the first time I've read that a writer thinks writing is an agony.  In fact, that word, as harsh as it is, seems to come up often within the context of how many writers see the writing process. 

I guess the question I've asked myself often enough is, if writing is such an agony, why do we do it?  Why do we continue to put ourselves through something that causes us pain?  Some writers would answer, because I have no choice.  Because not writing would be even more of an agony.  I'm not sure I agree with that entirely, but I understand how they might feel that way, particularly if I haven't had the opportunity to sit down and write for a long time. 

And let's be clear here:  Writing is not an agony in the same way as lying in the dirt, near death from starvation, gunfire going off overhead in some war torn country would be.  When I sit down to write, I'm pretty comfortable in my chair, in front of the table in my writing room, or at a desk in the Silent Study Room at the local public library, my belly full, not a gun in sight. 

But I understand only too well why writing can be an agony, in a creative and spiritual sense.  And I may even have some insight, going through what I am now on the five-thousandth rewrite of Chapter One, about what the cause of that agony is. 

For me, the agony of writing is a result of the difference between how I envision the finished product of what I'm writing, versus what I have on the screen in front of me.  That difference, between fantasy and reality, really, is often so wide, I find myself literally hurting inside, that I've thus far been incapable of taking my writing any closer to what I know it could be.

The agony of writing is also about knowing I have a problem with something I've written, but not knowing exactly what that problem is or how to fix it.  I can't tell you how many times I've sat at my writing table, stared at my MacBook, and wanted to throw my hands up in despair (or worse).  "I can't do this," I tell myself.  "I've done everything I can to figure it out, and I still haven't been able to do it."

In that sense, then, the agony associated with writing is also about having to face the possibility, nearly every time you sit down to write, that you might not be a writer, after all–or, more modestly, the writer you want to be.  If what you put on the page doesn't please you, and, in your mind at least, you feel incapable of getting it there, then how does one reconcile what one wants to produce, and what one actually produces?  

In the end, words are completely harmless.  You know that, and I know that.  It's not like any one of them has the ability to shoot us with a gun, or poke our eye out, or trip us on the way out the door.  Words can't cause physical agony.

But, let me tell you, there are times I've felt literally in physical agony, because I can't figure out what the hell I'm doing, and, no matter what I do or try, it still isn't enough.  And, even worse, I'm not sure it ever will be.

The trick, I suppose, is having enough faith in our ability, and in the process, to stand out of our way and let the writing happen.  That's when I find I'm most productive, when–dare I say it–I enjoy the process of writing to the extent that I feel elevated, like I'm soaring in the sky.  These sensations don't happen nearly often enough, but, when they do, it's usually the result of bringing no expectations to what I've written, and allowing myself to receive what I was meant to put down on the page that day.

I wish that's the way writing always was.  Maybe…maybe I have a hand in making it that.