Why Not?

Let's see if I can describe this feeling.

I feel disappointment, depression, despair.  We'll call them the three d's.  No one wants to experience any of them at any time, because they make you feel so uncomfortable.  Because they make you feel so crummy.         

But it goes beyond that.

It goes into feeling useless.  Worthless.  Like a waste of life. 

I'm good at doing so many things.

I do a great job of running our household.

When I clean our house, I guarantee you it's clean.  I defy you to find dirt or dust anywhere.

I can be a terrific cook, make delicious meals.

I balance all of our accounts to the penny every two weeks, and I'm in control of our finances.

I do a reasonable job of cutting Chris's hair.

The list goes on and on of all the domestic duties I do without thinking about them, with results even I, a perfectionist, am happy with.

And, when I used to work for one of Canada's major banks, well, if I may say so myself, I did a pretty decent job too.  Employees were happy, customers were happy, my boss was happy, auditors were happy, results were good, and I had a reputation for being a good employee.   (Until expectations blew up, and no one–no human being, that is–could meet them anymore.  That's when I got out.  Because I knew there was something more.  Because I wanted to experience what that something more was.  Because I needed to be the writer I'd always wanted to be.  Because I had to at least try, or feel like the mountain climber who always wanted to climb Everest but didn't.) 

Except…

Except what if you're not the writer you thought you were or thought you could be?  What if, no matter how hard you work on your novel, it's still not good enough?  What if you look at the damn thing for the thousandth time, still see something wrong with it, and have no idea how to fix it?

I'm filled with such sadness right now, I want to quit.  Quit writing and quit life (for those who are worried I might do something desperate, please know I won't; but that doesn't stop me from feeling like I want to).  

How many times can you keep trying and still come up short?  How many times can you keep banging your head against the wall without busting it wide open?  How many times can you keep doing this to yourself and feel so badly afterward, you wonder if you might be a masochist?

I bet I could be a terrific barista at Starbucks.  I bet I could be a terrific employee at Lindt, or Banana Republic, or any number of other places.  I bet I could master all kinds of jobs, if a manager gave someone my age, with my experience, a chance.   

So why do I keep doing this to myself?  Why not give up writing altogether?  Why not get a job like everyone else, make a little money, buy a few nice things–but, most importantly, never face the frustration of writing again?

Why not?

Why not?

Boredom #2

I haven't yet figured out how, one day, I can look at a piece of writing I've worked on a thousand times before and be so bored, I nearly fall off my chair.  Yet, the next day, I can work on the very same piece of writing again, and be thoroughly engaged in it.

If I figure out the difference between the two, I'll let you know.

I hate wasting a good writing session because I'm bored out of my tree, yet it seems to be unavoidable.

If you have any ideas–beyond getting up, doing a few stretches, or even going for a short walk in the fresh air–on how to solve this problem, please let me and my readers know.

Qualities of a Pulitzer Winner

In a little research I did recently, I found out what judges for the Pulitzer Prize are looking for in the books they choose to win.  Of course, you have to be an American writer to win the Pulitzer, but I suspect these are the qualities of great writing, no matter where you do your work.  

They are:

1).  fully-developed characters
2).  original voice
3).  solidly-crafted structure
4).  serious theme
5).  ability to enchant
6).  originality
7).  authority
8).  verve.

Don't let any of these put you under unreasonable pressure as you write.  Keep them in the back of your mind, that's all. 

Let them help you focus on those areas where you should put your time and effort.  Aspire to achieve them in your work.
 

Perfection

 

 

 

 

 

 

There's no soul in perfection.

-Keith Urban

The Best Damn Writer

So the other night, I'm watching one of my favorite summer shows, So You Think You Can Dance–although, with the changes this season, including the absence of the soul of the show, Mary Murphy, I'm not sure how much longer I'll continue to watch–and I'm seeing how hard many of the dancers work.  How they often started when they were two or three years old and, here they are, now in their early- or mid-twenties, working harder than ever to be the best damn dancers they can be.

Then, in the latest issue of Vanity Fair, the one about Caitlin Jenner, I read about Caitlin when she was Bruce, how he attended the Munich Olympics in 1972, competed, but didn't perform particularly well.  But, in preparation for the Montreal Olympics, four years down the road, Bruce worked eight or more hours a day, every day of the week, to be the best damn athlete he could be, which resulted in his spectacular gold medal win in the decathlon.  Talk about devotion and commitment.  That's not rare for Olympic-caliber athletes.  That's typical, the norm.   

So why should writing be any different?  Why should being the best damn writer I can be take any less time or effort or devotion or commitment–or whatever it takes from deep down in the soul–than someone working toward being the best damn dancer or athlete or anything he or she can be?  It shouldn't.  It shouldn't, at all. 

So I'll keep plugging away, because I still have a lot more hours to put in, I still have a lot more to learn, and I still have a lot more work to do.  And I may never appear on a TV show or win an award –hell, I may not even get published–but it won't be for a lack of trying.

All I can do is try.  No, all I can do is work like freakin' hell, for as long as it takes, until I reach my goals.  

It's up to me.   

Quote from Professor James Hynes

"Writing fiction is not an efficient process, and that's as it should be."

(Quote is from Professor James Hynes, in The Great Courses, "Writing Great Fiction: Storytelling Tips and Techniques," Lecture #13, "In the Beginning–How to Start a Plot.")

Writing Classes

Who needs writing classes when virtually every book we pick up is a potential class in how, or how not, to write–if we look at them that way?  That was my motivation a few weeks ago behind picking up a copy of Toni Morrison's Home at the local public library.

A little history about my experience with Toni Morrison's writing. 

When Oprah selected several of Morrison's novels for her book club years ago, well, like everyone else, I bought them and started reading with every good intention.  Then, when the reading got tough–I mean really tough–the weak (that's me, and apparently many others) gave up.  What the hell is Morrison talking about?  I had no idea. 

And, while Morrison told Oprah, after several viewers criticized Oprah's book club choices because they were difficult to understand and took a lot of work, that that's called reading, I didn't agree.  There are too damn many good books out there to read, understand, and enjoy, without having to struggle unnecessarily with the odd one or two. 

Time to move on to the reading experience I'm looking for.   

After that little excursion, I didn't think I'd pick up another Morrison book.  Ever. 

And then I saw Home sitting on the library shelf.  And it was short, blessedly short–just 147 pages.  Surely, I told myself, I can get through that.  Surely, I can understand what goes on in 147 pages–if I break it all down, work through one section at a time before moving on to the next.  Even the laziest reader can do that.   

And let's not forget, to some people, Morrison is a great writer.  Very great.  Some readers await the release of her new books.  And there's that thing about her winning a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993.  If I could just get through one of Morrison's books, admittedly, perhaps one of her less ambitious novels–maybe even one of her less popular ones–I might learn something as a writer.  I might learn something that helps me on the long and arduous journey of completing my own novel. 

Maybe.

I hoped so, anyway. 

So…I got through it.  All of it.  Yes, I did.  

And what did I learn?

Well, yes, I learned Morrison is a terrific storyteller.  Yes, she says a lot in a very short space.  And, yes, there are things about the African-American experience I didn't know about.  

But I also learned other things.

Like Morrison uses cliches. 

And she uses adverbs (sparingly). 

And she does a lot of telling instead of showing.

And she uses "was" all the time.

Morrison even used a current expression in a context I found both jarring and inappropriate.  For me, that expression broke the spell of the story, drawing attention to the writing itself.  Couldn't she have said it in another, better, way?    

In other words, Toni Morrison is a human being like anyone else.  And she's a writer like any other writer.   

Perhaps the greatest lesson I learned from reading Toni Morrison's Home is that it's okay to do some of the things we're told, as writers, we can't or shouldn't.  That, when it comes to writing, there really are no rules.  It's what works best for the story we're telling.         

I realize Toni Morrison is Toni Morrison; she can get away with a hell of a lot more than I can. 

But reading Home showed me I don't have to be as hard on myself as I have been, I can relax a bit.  Using the odd adverb isn't going to ruin my writing.  It really is okay to tell sometimes rather than to show.  The world isn't going to end because I broke a rule here and there.    

In other words, you really can go easier on yourself and still do a respectable job.  Toni Morrison proves that in Home.

What's Your Novel About?

How many times has someone asked me, what's your novel about?  And how many times have I balked, trying to gauge how they'll react when I tell them it's about three gay men trying to find love?  Too many to count.

Then, after working on the bloody thing for about five years, it came to me a few days ago.  Sure, on the surface, my novel is about three gay men trying to find love.  But below that–and the real reason why I'm writing it–it's really about the tragedy of never experiencing love.  Or, more specifically, the tragedy of never experiencing love with a special someone–and for oneself.

Now, when people ask what my novel is about, I'll have a more general–and more specific–answer for them.  I'll have the best answer I can give, without going into too much detail, and without potentially taking away from what I'm trying to do.

(Although the woman I'd never seen before, who sat beside me last October in Victoria, at Chris's twenty-fifth anniversary dinner, working for the provincial government, and who was totally cool when I told her my novel is about three gay men trying to find love, and asked me amazingly accepting and insightful questions about the story and process–she set the standard for how I'd love to talk to people about my work.  And, if I hadn't been open with her, I wouldn't have had such a gratifying experience.  Thank you for that, whoever you are.)